J'adoube
by Sharlot
Summary: The Winchesters are unwilling pawns in an apocalyptic game between Heaven and Hell. It's White's move, and they aren't playing fair. Pre-Series. Teen!Dean. Wee!Sam. Protective!John. COMPLETE
1. Knight Takes Pawn

**A/N: I extend my humble thanks to Sue Pokorny and Emmessann for their lovely beta work…to Jennygeee and Numpty for being my guinea pigs and to Nong Pradu for her gentle support and encouragement. Thanks be also to BlackIceWitch for the beautiful poster art she made for ffdotnet and to Sue Pokorny for the lovely art she created for Live Journal and AO3. Gee whiz you all are so amazing. **

**A/N: **_**This fanfic is extremely Dean-centric.**_** There are a total of 7 chapters and 50k words. Let's get started… **

_**J'adoube**_

**Chapter One: Knight Takes Pawn**

_Albuquerque, NM—August, 1993_

Will Darnell mourned his green army-man where it lay half-buried in sand, a small sacrifice for the more important objective.

"You served well, soldier!" The boy offered his commiserations as he plucked the valiant toy from the dirt and tossed it into his backpack with his other casualties. A volley of wet giggles coming from the other side of the sand-fort had him narrowing his eyes and swearing his unholy revenge.

He burrowed his knees into the moist silt and rested on his heels, sweeping his pale eyes to and fro across the battlefield. Over the last few hours he'd meticulously constructed an elaborate airstrip, sculpted two army bases and dug a series of trenches and moats filled with river-water. And like Bobby Fischer considering a risky gambit, the kid focused on the field of play, calculating which bold strategy might win him the day. So, taking a few key grunts from their current platoons, Will placed them in a different battalion and made his move, storming the enemy's fort with a rebel yell.

Will mimicked the sound of gunfire and grenade explosions as the battle unfolded. "Dsgh-dsgh-dsgh! Purhghhrh! Ahhhhhhh!" Pressing his lips together and imitating the _putt-putt_ of an aircraft engine, he pelted the enemy fort with small river rocks to simulate the strafe of gunfire. Several enemy soldiers fell screaming into the moat while his ground-forces steadfastly pushed onward, storming the base, seizing it, and then hoisting their flag, victorious at last. Will lifted a triumphant fist. "Hell yeah! Check and mate!"

"Nooo! That's no fair. I'm telling Mom you cussed!" Macy Darnell leapt from behind her obliterated army base, angel-wing hairpins askew, butterfly-themed romper flecked with mud—pure, molten hellfire in her eyes.

"Aw, geez Mace. Don't have a cow. I'm here playing with ya, aren't I? It's not like I don't got better things to do than babysit your goofy ass. I'm a healthy teenager, man. I got things to do, places to go, girls to…" He leered and made like he was squeezing melons with his hands.

Macy stood, arms folded, face puckered. "This is dumb and boring. I wanna play Barbies now." She pointed to her knapsack lying to the side, filled to the brim with the stupid things. A slim, plastic arm and blonde head peeped out the top, its fiendishly perky smile and dead eyes taunting Will. "You be Ken and I'll be Barbie—"

"No way, man!"

"Please, Will?" Macy's eyes shifted from possessed-demon to basset-hound-puppy in three seconds flat.

Will shook his head, panicked. One more second of those dewy baby-blues pleading at him and he'd be stuck in Barbie-town for the next hour. No thank you. Keeping the little dorknugget out of their mom's hair for a couple hours was one thing, losing all dignity in the process was another. He walked around the sand-fort on his knees, collecting the fallen toys as he went.

"No can do, squirt. It's late. We gotta book." He made a big show of checking his watch as if to prove his point and noticed…"Aw crap!"…he wasn't lying. They really were late. "Come on Mace, help me. Mom's gonna have us featured on _America's Most Wanted_ if we're not back soon."

His sister huffed a prissy sigh. "It's _Macy_," she corrected him as she sifted through the dirt and mud for buried army-men, haphazardly tossing those she found into Will's backpack.

"Watch it! You're getting sand everywhere, _Mace-the-space-case_!"

"Don't, Will!"

"I'm sorry." He gave her a contrite nod and a pat on the head. "You're right. My bad. I meant _Mace-the-duck-face!"_

"Will, noooOooOo!"

This time Macy's chin vibrated, nose filling with snot, turning a juicy red. Aw, geez. Will figured he had an 80% chance of tears if he didn't tone it down and a 100% certainty of a full report to their mom, outlining the depths of his cruelty—complete with stick-figure illustrations—if so much as one tear fell. The kid was nothing if not diabolically savvy when it came to garnering parental sympathy. She had no shame, fought dirty. He had to redirect or he'd be doomed.

"C'mon, you know I'm kidding, munchkin." He put his foot through the fort, messily leveling the dirt and retrieving the last few scattered soldiers. He lobbed them into his backpack and zipped it tight. "I'll give you a piggyback ride to the bikes, okay?"

Macy stifled a whimper, mollified. "Here's one more." She handed him a stray army-man as a peace offering. Will grabbed the toy and stuffed it into his pocket.

"Got it. Now, climb on, runt."

"I'm thirsty. Can I have some water, first?"

"Ugh," Will evil-eyed his sister as he slung his backpack off and removed the warm bottle of water. "Here. Don't drink it all. I'm thirsty, too." He tapped his foot impatiently as she threw back her head, drinking sloppily. "C'mon, c'mon. Enough. Give me s—" Will squinted. "Hey, what'd you put in there?" Will snatched the bottle, wiped off her kid germs, inspecting it. A strand of beads lay coiled at the bottom of the plastic bottle with a small cross attached. "You drop one of your kiddy necklaces in here?"

"Nope…" Macy squinched an eye as she peered into the bottle.

"Sure…I'll just bet you didn't!"

"I didn't! But can I have 'em?" She held out her hand, hopeful eyes ogling the beads.

"No way, they're mine now." Will pivoted the bottle away from her. "Squatter's rights, see?" He swallowed a few sips of the hot water and belched. "Guhh, that's nasty. Let's get home and get something cold."

"Hold this for me, too." Macy picked up one of her angel-wing bobby pins that had fallen out of her hair while she drank.

"Ugh, I got it. C'mon y'little squirtmeister. Let's go." Putting the hairpin and the half-empty bottle back in his pack, he kept a grip on it as he bent low so his sister could spider-monkey onto his back. Jogging toward their bicycles, Will made sure to jig a step every now and again to give her a good ride. He loved to hear her laugh, though he'd never admit it.

Approaching the bikes tucked between trees next to an old service road, he greeted his pride-and-joy with a wide, lascivious grin and a wave. "Well, hello there gorgeous!"

"You're such a dumb-dumb-head. It's just a bike!" Macy rolled her eyes as her brother bent down and deposited her.

"Aw, don't you listen to a word, Baby," he cooed, stroked the sleek, black frame with feather-light fingers. He passed his palm over the _WD_ he'd painstakingly etched into her glossy finish underneath the winged GT logo, staking his claim, making sure no one questioned who owned her.

After having squirreled away every cent of his allowance for the past year, everything he'd earned from odd yard-work for neighbors _plus_ a generous kick-in from the parents, Will had been finally able to call this cherry ride _his_. The damn thing made him weak in the knees. Best bike ever.

Pressing the key into the cable lock tethering both his and his sister's bikes to the tree, he scoffed. "_Just a bike_, my butt. This here, Mace, is a 1993 GT Pro Elite with tasty AME Pro Tri grips..." he pointed, presenting each item like a _Price Is Right_ model, "...luscious Rhyno Lite rims—perfection right down to her velvety-smooth Odyssey Pitbull brakes. Sweetest ride this side of a driver's license."

Macy put on her Polly Pocket helmet, fumbling with the strap until Will took a knee and absently clasped it for her. He honked her nose when he was done. Mounting her pink, bedazzled bicycle, she scrunched her face and shrugged. "Your bike's black and ugly," she broke the news to him.

"Black and ugly…?" He clutched his heart. "Says the goofball whose bike looks like fairies threw up on it. Sheesh, talk about ugly! We can't possibly have come from the same parents."

"Yes we did. You take it back, Will!"

"Nope. Mom and Dad got you from gypsies when you were a baby."

"Nuh-uh!"

"'Fraid so, little-bit. They didn't even have to pay a dime. Gypsies offered them $500 just to get rid of you—buh-bye!" He waved his fingers at her.

"You're full'a beans, Will!"

"Maybe I am," he laughed, checking his watch again. "C'mon, we gotta get home before Mom freaks. Annnd," he seesawed back and forth on his bike like an itchy racer waiting for the checkered flag, "our way through the jungle is filled with _dinosaurs_." He cut his eyes to the left, toward the bushes lining the riverbank. "See? There's a couple Velociraptors stalking us right now! Hurry! We gotta outrun 'em, Mace!"

Macy's face lit with the promise of adventure, and she took off as fast as her legs could peddle, squealing at him over her shoulder, "I'm Lex…you're Tim, so I get to be the leader!"

Will sped after her. "I ain't no doofy kid, y'crazy munckin! I'm the cool dude who gets the hot blonde chick! Watch out! T-Rex at nine-o'clock!" He swerved to avoid getting eaten. "It's coming for us, Mace, pedal to the metal!"

"I'm _Lex_!" Her giggle morphed into a whine as he passed her. "Wait up, Will. C'mon! I wanna be leader!"

The two wove their way through their imaginary _Jurassic Park_, the sun spilling over them, baking the asphalt beneath their tires. A hot breeze blew across the river, kissing their cheeks. Letting his sister pass him, Will popped a wheelie and held it, pedaled along the sidewalk, carefree and alive and chuckling at his little sister when she tried to do the same, imitating her brother. She never got her front wheel off the ground, despite giving it several attempts.

With her line-of-sight obscured by an adobe wall bordering one of the houses and her attention focused on her play, she clipped a corner too fast and plowed into a dark-haired man wearing a heavy leather jacket—in the middle of August, no less. Macy slammed on her brakes and would have toppled, had the man not collared her, steadying her bike before she fell. A thrill of adrenaline surged through Will, and he leapt off his bike, letting it fall as he ran to her.

"Easy, Mace! Careful!" He grabbed her up in his arms. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Her face flushed with embarrassment, and she turtled into her brother's chest. Repositioning her bike, Will helped her get back on and get her balance.

"Sorry, sir," Will said to the guy. "She hurt you?"

"Not at all." The man squatted down. "You okay, sweetheart?"

Macy nodded but said nothing, too bashful and uncertain to respond. "Sorry, she's shy around strangers, but we're good." Will answered for her.

"That's all right." The man palmed an old, silver dollar from behind her ear with a magician's flair. "This must belong to you."

Macy sneaked a peek at the coin then retreated toward Will. The man gave the dollar an enticing wiggle between his fingers, tapping it on her bare shoulder.

"Be polite and take it, Mace."

"You can give it to her for me, champ." The man tossed Will the dollar.

Catching the coin, Will placed it in his sister's hand. Macy took the gift with a bashful smile. "Now say thank you."

She swallowed hard, avoided eye contact with the man, whispered, "Thank you."

"Okay, c'mon Mace. We're late. Thanks, Mister." Will mounted his bike.

The man nodded, studied them with a keen eye and tight lip. "It's all right, son. You sure you're both all right?"

"Uh…yeah, sure." Will bobbed his head with a shrug. "We're good. Sorry again." He waited for Macy to pedal ahead then followed, keeping close watch over his sister.

A safe distance from the man, Will snorted at the girl. "Smooth move, Einstein. You're such a klutz."

Macy's bike wobbled as she struggled to control her speed. "Am not. Take it back, Will."

"Um, yeah you are. What about that time right after school got out for the summer and we visited Granny, huh? I saved your goofy face from running right through her sliding glass door. Nearly broke my finger doing it, too. I'll never play piano again, thanks to you."

"You dunno how to play piano, dummy!"

"Well, I'll never be able to learn, now! You can thank me when you're Miss America."

Macy stood, pedaling furiously in her excitement. "I'm gonna be Miss America?"

Will laughed. "Sure, kiddo. Of course."

With the house in sight, Will quickened his pace and shot ahead, aiming straight for the curb. He jumped it, corrected course to avoid his mother's garden with her prized apache plume, drove around the house and came to a sideways, skidding stop inches from the fence spanning the driveway. When Macy caught up, he warned her, "Not a word about hitting that guy. Mom'll have a fit. Our secret?"

"Only if you pinky promise…"

Will sighed. "Oh Jeez. Little sisters, man..." He offered her a pinky. "Well, c'mon..."

She latched on with her own and gave his finger a good shake, confirming their sacred pact. "Our secret."

Once Macy'd dismounted and held the gate for him, he hefted both bicycles at once, setting them inside the aluminum carport before he followed his sister into the house. Will was dying for a cold drink of water, sweat dripping from every pore. Hunger overtook thirst, however, the moment he strode into the kitchen where the scent of fresh-baked brownies hung thick. Following his nose, Will zeroed in on the batch cooling on the counter and pounced on them with a battle cry.

"Nope!" His mother threw out an arm with one fluid motion and swatted his groping hand away like a cruel, nimble ninja, then went back to placidly washing the dishes without ever having looked at him. "Those are for Macy's Daisy meeting tonight."

"You've gotta be freaking kidding me!" Will coughed out in wounded indignation. "I'm starving!"

"We're gonna fire up the grill and do burgers in a bit. You can wait."

"But I'm dying _now_. There's gotta be laws about this kind of abuse!" Will sighed, dragged his feet across the floor like a hunched buzzard on its last legs. Opening the refrigerator, he rooted around until he found a half-full Gatorade bottle and dejectedly gulped it down.

His mother's eyes settled on the muddied knees of his jeans. "You're filthy. What have you two been doing?"

"Mom, Will called me a space-case."

His mother sighed and gave Will a withering look.

"Okay, now that's totally taken out of context, Mom! I meant it in the best possible way."

Macy moved on to the next offense without pausing for breath. "And he wouldn't play Barbies with me. And all he would do is play with them stupid army-men."

Dammit. So much for the piggyback defense. "Tattletale."

His mom turned from Macy to Will. "Army-men? Aren't you a little old for them?"

"Uh, yeah Mom. I am, but it was either that or Barbies. C'mon. Whaddaya expect? I kept the doof busy, like you said. 'Sides, it was educational. Y'don't want her dinky brain cells shriveling over the summer, do ya? I taught her some sound military tactics. Well, I mean…you know—" he shrugged his way through another lazy swig, "I taught her by completely decimating her army and all, but, hey, better to learn 'em young, right?"

"Uh huh," she said, distracted as she inspected her daughter. "Macy, you're covered in mud. You got it on your shoes, _in your hair_. Oh my God…" She pointed a furious finger to a silty smudge on her clean floor. "Go wash up and change this instant. When you're done I want you to come down and help me shuck the corn."

"Okay, Mommy." The child trotted upstairs.

"And put those clothes in the hamper!" his mom called after her then turned to her son with a click of her tongue. "Did you have to let her get _that_ dirty?"

"You're the one who told me to watch her. I kept the little spaz from swimming in the river like she wanted. I should get a medal for that alone."

"Oh yeah, you're a real humanitarian." She arched one of her freaky, double-jointed eyebrows at him.

"I do my best." Will slam-dunked the empty bottle into the garbage. "C'mon, this cost me a whole precious day of summer vacation when I could'a been spending quality time with Nicole Hamilton and her jugs of glory."

His mother flicked her dishrag at him. "William Michael Darnell, don't you _dare_ let me hear you s—" She ran out of steam, seeing Will's puckish grin and laughing eyes. "Ugh. You're gonna be a handful, aren't you?" She searched his face, softening. "Good God above, you are definitely gonna be a handful. Just look at you—look at them mossy eyes. Fourteen years old and getting more beautiful every day."

"Uh, whoa…hold the phone there, Mom. Totally a dude, here—m'not beautiful—_handsome devil_, maybe, but not _beautiful_, c'mon!"

His mother's eyes swept over him, a wistful smile kissing her lips. She shrugged. "Sorry angel-face, I call 'em as I see 'em." She palmed his cheek, caressed his freckled nose with her thumb then gave him a couple of light slaps. "But, I mean it, though, Will. Be respectful, okay?"

"You know I am, Mom. _Gentleman's_ my middle name!"

"Yuh-huh…it better be. And don't be so rough on Macy, either, huh? She idolizes you. Her sun rises and sets on your say-so. Besides, you're not fooling anyone with that _doofy-spaz_ routine of yours. You love her and you know it."

Will puffed out a piffling breath. "I admit nothing. Kid's a thorn in my side. A pixie-dust covered ball and chain. You'd think if you and Dad were gonna _churn some butter_, you'd at least have the decency to churn out a brother for me instead."

The woman's eyes went supernova. "William Darnell!"

"What'd I say?" He batted his long, innocent eyelashes at her and backed away, trying to make a break for his room.

"Will, wait." His mother grabbed a brown paper bag from the counter. "Run this over to Daddy. He's stuck workin' on Mr. Simmons' old Plymouth. This should tide him over until he gets home." She jiggled the bag.

"The Road Runner? Whoa! Nice." Will rubbed his hands together.

"Yes, well, you can take this to him, but you can't stay. I need you home to help with dinner. Thirty minutes. You hear me?"

"Aw, maaan!" Will opened his backpack, plopped his father's lunch on top of the water bottle and slung it on his back. He started for the door.

"Wash your hands before you go. You're a mess."

"Oh my God, Mom. You're killing me, here." Will spun around, plunged his hands into the dishwater, pulled them out a nanosecond later and flicked the water off them. "Happy?" His mother came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders in an affectionate, swaying hug, pressed her cheek to his temple.

He made to wipe his hands on his shirt but his mom Mr. Miyagi'd them away and handed him a dishtowel. "I know, I'm so mean." She teased the boy, kissing his ear where he was the most ticklish.

Will squeezed his ear against his shoulder as a shiver went through his spine. "You kinda are, you know? Big ol' pain in my ass."

"Hey, watch your language, bub. You talk like you were raised by hooligans or something."

"_Hooligans_? Is that even a real word?"

"Don't change the subject. No swearing. And none of that '_butter-churning_' nonsense, either. You know that's not appropriate." His mom sobered, meaning business, but she didn't release the backward hug either.

"Sorry, Mom. I think I've spent too much time with Macy today. I'm starting to pick up her vocab. You should really have a talk with her. Mouth like a Marine, man. I ain't lyin'."

"I'll bet." The woman chuckled and smacked him on his rear. "Get going, now."

"Yeah, yeah." Will headed for the door.

Before he could make a clean getaway, his mother called out to him, "Oh, and Will…"

"What?"

She offered him a stern glance. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

"Huh?"

Staring at him a moment longer, she blinked and nudged her chin toward the brownies, her eyes twinkling permission.

Will dove at the plate. "I love you, Mom. You're the best—" He snatched a brownie, "—the smartest—" clawed at another, "—the most beautiful mom in the world! I mean it!" He tossed her a disarming smile.

"You're full of it, you now that? But I love you, too, Monkey." She used the pet name she'd given him as a toddler, both warming and annoying him at the same time.

"Ugh, Mom…"

"Thirty minutes. Dinner. Don't be late."

"I won't." He crammed his mouth full of brownie, lashes fluttering, eyes rolling back in his head. "God, Mom. So good!" He licked the crumbs off his fingers, flapped his other brownie-bearing hand at her and shouldered his way out the door.

**i**

As Will crossed the river and pedaled toward old-town, a 1967 black, Chevy Impala crawled past him before speeding up, her motor growling like she owned the road.

"Well, hello beautiful!" Will couldn't help but give her a long whistle as he vaulted a ditch and took the corner at a daring angle.

There weren't many cars parked on the side of the road this time of day, so he used the curb to practice his bunny hopping skills. The bike had been in his possession for less than two months, but he was determined to master every trick he could as soon as possible. He made sure to slow his pace as he passed Mr. Adler who stood sweeping the sidewalk in front of his old-fashioned butcher's shop. Between his plump stomach bulging out of his white apron and the sunburn on his balding head, the man looked like a marshmallow with a cherry on top.

The older man hailed him. "Afternoon, Will! I see you're hell-bound, aren't you?"

Will raised his eyes at that. "Hey, Mr. Adler. Dad's workin' on a '68 Road Runner." He waved without stopping.

"Like I said—_hell-bound_!" Mr. Adler acknowledged him with a wave of his broom.

A few minutes later, Will stopped at _Darnell's Restoration and Repair_, jumped off his bike and carried it into the shop. Having heard the bell clang as he entered, his dad stepped out from behind the hood of the Road Runner.

"It's just me." Will leaned his bike against the wall, rooted through his backpack for the bag. "Well, me and dinner, that is."

"Hey, son. Good, I'm starved."

Will fumbled mid-stride, his attention stolen by the sight of the car. Mesmerized by her curves, he stood staring with dopy eyes until his father cleared his throat.

"Food…gimme." He wiped his hand on a rag and motioned the boy over, pointing to the sack.

"Uh, right. Sorry." Will shook himself and tossed the bag to his father, lingering to pet the car's crisp, cherry-red paintjob. "Oh man, she's smokin' hot. Wow." He swung around to the front, braced his hands on the grill and bent forward to inspect the engine.

The man took his place beside his son, watching him. "So," he goaded the boy as he unwrapped his sandwich and plowed into it. "Dazzle me."

Will grinned at the challenge. "Okay, she's a 1968 Plymouth Road Runner, first year they made 'em."

"Excellent." His father took another bite, talked around the ham and cheese. "And what do we got inside?" He wagged his sandwich at the engine.

Will pointed as he spoke, recalling everything he'd read about this car in his magazines, reciting almost verbatim. "Well Dad, this not-so-dainty lady, here, has a 426 cubic-inch Hemi V8 with a high-rise intake manifold and factory dual-quads."

"How many horses?"

"425 gallopers, each and every one of 'em chompin' at the bit, 490lbs of torque. She's got a 4-speed manual tranny, but—and get ready for this—you said you wanted to be dazzled, right?"

"Do me," his dad prompted with his mouth full.

Will leaned in, cocky smile curling one side of his face as he looked back at his dad. "It's a 1968, yeah…but you can tell this particular unit was built late in the year because she still has her original Hurst shifters, see?" He pointed.

The man snorted, impressed. "Show off."

Will took a step back, taking in the whole engine. "But you can forget _elegance and grace_ with this girl. Ain't her style. Nope, she's a badass street thug. We're talkin' pure nitroglycerine on wheels." Will whistled with longing. "Man oh man…"

His dad's face shone with pride and approval. "That's my boy. She's a sassy thing, ain't she?"

"Sure is. Full'a piss and vinegar. Hey, can I blow the horn?"

His dad started in on the other half of his sandwich, stepping aside so Will could get by him. "Go ahead."

Will's eyes sparkled with mischief as he slipped into the driver's seat and hit the horn twice with rapid, staccato bursts, imitating the '_Meep-meep!_' of the cartoon Road Runner. "Hey, Dad, did you know that Chrysler had to pay Warner Brothers a crap-ton'a money to use the Road Runner and the sound of the horn?"

"Yep. Sure did."

"Worth every penny, though, huh? Big part of her charm." Will ran his thumb across the small Road Runner icon embedded into the steering wheel and pressed the horn again. '_Meep-meep!_'

He continued to play with the horn until his father waved him off. "That's enough, Will. My ears."

"I'm getting one of these for myself someday." Will caressed the seat and smoothed his hand along the dash.

"You say that about every classic that comes through here." His dad opened his dinner sack, grabbed the apple and bit into it.

"Heck yeah. Gonna have a whole harem."

At that, his father threw back his head and laughed. "_Harem_. I like that. Chip off the old block."

"Darn straight. Gonna be a kickass mechanic like my old man. You hear that, _old man_?"

"Sure does beat workin' for 'the man', I'll tell you that right now. Kick me if I ever think of doing anything else but this for a living."

"I'll keep ya in line." Will tapped the horn two more times, cackling with glee when his father gave him _the look_. He scooted out and closed the door, hopped onto his father's workbench and sat, swinging his legs, making himself at home. He idly played with a hubcap, spinning it on his finger like a Frisbee. "So, what's wrong with her?"

"Nothing. Mr. Simmons wants a tune-up, tires rotated. The works. Las Vegas Auto Show is this weekend."

Will let the hubcap fall with a clang. "Wait, _this_ weekend? And we're not going?"

"Not this year, buddy. I gotta work." His dad didn't look happy about it.

"But this—this sucks!"

"Look, I love sharing these things with you more than you can ever know. I live for them. I do. But I gotta pay the bills, kiddo. And it's not like it's the _only_ show in the world. We're going to the Albuquerque Show in September, so we'll have that."

"Yeah, but I wanted…you know…a good, _long_ drive. Get out on the open road, just you and me. No dweeb. Just father and son bondage time."

His dad came close to choking on his apple. "I think you mean _bonding._"

"That's what I said. I need to move, man. It's not the same when the show's a ten-minute-drive from home."

"Got a touch of wanderlust, do ya? We'll plan for next year." He motioned for Will to get down then bridled him toward the door. "In the meantime, your mom wants you home for supper. She called to make sure you didn't overstay. Knew you'd get all tangled up in the Plymouth if I let ya."

"Maaaan, It's like she has eyes on the back of her head, and on the sides!"

His father nodded sagely, patted Will's head, mussing it. "Well, just remember there are only two certainties in life—"

"Death and taxes?"

"No. Mothers know all…mothers see all. Trust me on this, you can't fight it. Don't even try."

"Geez, tell me about it." The boy dragged his hand through his sweaty hair, pushing his bangs back before he strapped on his helmet. His hair had grown so long over the summer the ends had started to curl around his ears, driving him buggy. It felt wrong. He'd needed a cut before school started again.

"On the other hand," his father wadded the now-empty paper bag, threw it away, "the old bird makes a damn good sandwich. Tell her thanks. And I hear burgers will be waiting for you when you get home."

"Well, if she tosses in some bacon and cheese, I might forgive her for this trava—travi—uh, for this injustice." Will shouldered his backpack, his stomach already grumbling in anticipation. "But, man…it's been a hard day. Had to do chores, had to watch Mace forever, and now this."

His dad chuffed and held the door. "Well, go easy on her. She's the only mom y'got. I'll see you at home in a couple hours. Be careful."

"Always." Will shot out of the shop, mounted his bike at a run and gave a careless wave of his hand as he pedaled away.

After a few blocks, he nodded to Mr. Adler again as he rounded the corner by the old man's shop and stopped short when he spied a man and a boy hunched in front of the open hood of the Impala he'd seen pass by him on his way to the shop. Sure, she was road-worn and dusty, but sweet Jesus, if this wasn't a perfect example of _elegance and grace_, he didn't know what was. Will pedaled up and circled the car, hopping the curb as he did so.

"Wow! Great car, Mister!"

When the man glanced up, Will recognized the grizzled face from earlier. It was the same guy Macy had run into on the sidewalk. "Thanks, son."

Will wheelie-spun the bike around, passing the boy who appeared to be a few years older than Macy. Geez, a few more inches and his hair would have been just as long, too. It coiled lazily down his forehead, spilling into his big, nervous eyes. And Will thought _his_ hair needed a cut. The younger boy said nothing as he rode past him. He continued to stand there, staring at Will like one of those creepy kids from _The Shining_, following his every move. It gave him the jeebs, but the Impala proved to be too much of a draw for him to be put off by some weird, twitchy kid.

Braking to a stop, he placed a hand on the fender and balanced himself as he peered under the hood. "Sorry 'bout earlier. You know—kid sister and all." He offered the man a second apology and his hand. "I'm Will."

The man took his hand, giving it a firm shake. "John. This is my son, Sam." The man stroked his stubble and turned his attention to the engine, his brow pleating into a perfect accordion of frustration. "Darn thing keeps knocking."

"Yeah? Well, she sure is a beaut. '67 Chevy Impala. 327, four-barrel, 275 horses. A little TLC and she'll last a lifetime. Y'gotta take good care of her, though. She's looking a little rundown."

"You like cars?"

"Uh, yeah. My dad owns the garage a few blocks away." He nudged his head in the general direction.

"I see. Yeah, me and my son here, we're just visiting for a few days. Noticed the car making a knocking noise whenever I start her up. Dunno what's eatin' her."

Will smiled at that. Any man who called his car 'her' had his respect, creepy kid notwithstanding. Hopping off his bike, he laid it down, hooked his helmet on the handlebar and moved in for a closer look. His mom might freak at him for being late, but hey, she was always preaching at him about _doing for others_ and _helping the needy_. Hell, he was practically being a damn selfless hero, here.

"What kind of knocking? Loud rap or a soft tick?"

"You wanna take a listen?" The man edged away, allowing Will to settle in, letting him get a feel for the car.

"Sure, I help my dad all the time. He taught me everything he knows."

The man smiled, small and thin, like an aftertaste. He held out a keychain to his son. "Sam, turn her over and then wait in the backseat while Will takes a look at this."

"Okay, Dad." The boy took the keys and jumped behind the wheel, leaving the door open when he started the car.

As soon as he heard the knocking, Will smiled in relief. "Sounds like a simple piston slap to me."

"Yeah? So, is that serious?" The man stepped behind him, peering over his head into the engine.

Will swallowed a laugh, poor guy was a total rookie. "Naw, it's an easy fix, man. Eight ounces of Sea Foam in the gas tank, and, boom, adios knock."

"That's real good, son." The man set a firm hand on his shoulder. "You're definitely still in there somewhere."

Will cranked his neck back, about to ask what the hell _that_ was supposed to mean, but he never got the chance. Without warning, the guy's grip on his shoulder tightened. Before Will had time to react, the man threaded his other arm around his chest, just like his mother's embrace not a half hour ago, and pressed a rag over his nose and mouth.

The force of the man's powerful arms squeezed the air from his lungs, and Will gasped in response, breathing a lungful of a heady chemical compound that reminded him of a somewhat sweeter version of the stuff his father used to help start frozen engines during the winter. It singed his nose; and though he bucked hard, fighting like an animal to break free, the rag followed whichever way he turned. Making a final effort, Will flung out his hand and clawed the man's face. His nails were short, but he pinched with all his might until skin broke, coating his fingers with blood. And for one desperate second, the man's grip relaxed enough for Will to get his mouth free. He shouted for all he was worth, but the rag was soon back, stifling him, making it impossible for him to think straight.

Everything began to spin, and for the life of him, Will could not figure out which way was up. His lungs burned with every breath. The hood of the car slammed shut, and his knees buckled, but he never hit the ground. Will felt a jerking lurch, heard the scrape of his sneakers dragging across pavement. As his eyes rolled chaotically about, he caught a warped flash of the man still holding the rag to his nose, saw the determined set of his jaw, the strange gleam of hope or excitement, maybe, in his eyes. The guy manhandled him into the hot car, sun-heated vinyl scorching his unprotected arms as Will fought to get away. Another shove and his head hit the passenger door.

"Dad…Dad, be careful!" A small voice warbled like a mirage in the hot, desert sun.

As someone shifted him back so that his cheek rested on the seat, Will vacantly watched a streak of his drool steam and evaporate in the heat. He felt the prick of a needle on his arm, and his thoughts cartwheeled into the nether.

Mr. Adler's voice came from under the ground, somewhere. "What's all this racket? Will? Son? That you?"

A car door slammed and he felt a powerful engine grumble beneath him, felt the nauseating whoosh of acceleration.

A few more hollow words from the kid…

"Dad, is he gonna be okay?"

And the man's gravelly voice reverberating like he was in a cavern…

"He's fine Sam. Whatever's going on, we'll fix it. We'll fix him. Your brother's gonna be just fine."

Then everything went gray.

_**TBC **_


	2. Kriegspiel

_**J'adoube**_

**Chapter Two: Kriegspiel**

Dean's panicked eyes dulled as he sagged, spaghetti-limp in his father's arms. John dragged the teen around to the open driver's door and stuffed him into the sweltering car, pushing recklessly in his haste until his boy's head hit the passenger door with a thud.

"Dad…Dad, be careful!" Sam threw an arm across the seat to protect Dean's head from further injury. John gripped his legs, repositioned him so his head rested on the seat. Sidestepping out of the car, his eyes flitted up and down the street to see if anyone had seen him, but all remained clear for now. He gave no more thought to it and focused his attention on his son.

Dean lay there, glazed eyes blinking dumbly, unaware of his present surroundings. The kid's mouth twitched and ticked, impotent arms thrashed about as he mindlessly fought a phantom abductor. John couldn't trust the chloroform to keep him down for long, of course, so he jumped into the car and withdrew the prepared syringe from his breast pocket. He administered the Etorphine, and seconds later Dean's eyes rolled, his body unfurled, the last of his defenses lost to the drugs.

Before John could hit the gas, an older man wearing a bloodstained apron walked around the corner, clutching a broom.

"What's all this racket?" He pointed to the bicycle buckled on the pavement. "Will? Son? That you?"

John slammed the car door and tore away from the curb, tires squealing, spitting dirt and gravel at the old man.

"Dad, is he gonna be okay?"

"He's fine Sam. Whatever's going on, we'll fix it. We'll fix him. Your brother's gonna be fine." Running a red light, he checked his rearview mirror and saw the shopkeeper trot a few steps after the car and then stop, hands on flaccid hips. "Goddammit!" John hit the steering column with his palm. "Goddammit!"

"Did he see?" Sam craned his neck, peering through the back window.

John writhed his fingers against the steering wheel until they burned. "He saw enough."

Sam spun forward, coughed through the chloroform vapor filling the car. He gagged. "S'bad back here, Dad."

John put a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat then groped about the seat, searching for the doused rag by touch. "Get the cloth. It's somewhere…there! Underneath his cheek, see?" Driving onto the bridge, tears filled his eyes as he fought to keep control of the car. "Get the rag, Sam." John held his breath as Sam tipped over the seat like an oil derrick, legs kicking in the air as he snatched it.

"Uhhh, Dad…" Sam wobbled against the seat, on the verge of keeling over.

"Gimme!" John rolled down his window, tossed out the rag and watched it sail into the air-currents above the oncoming cars before it fluttered over the side of the bridge. He leaned against the door, dragging in clean air to keep his own head straight. "Crack the windows, Sam. We gotta clear this place."

Tears leaked from Sam's irritated eyes, clumsy hands fumbling with the crank. "Whoa…" He looked around him like he was tripping.

"Don't pass out on me, kid. I need you awake. Get them windows down and get some air."

"Uhhmm…sure…okay." The kid stuck his head out the window, coughed into the wind as he strove to clear his head and lungs. A moment later he ducked inside, still bleary.

"Better?" John examined him through the rearview mirror. He threw his arm back, snapping his finger. "You with me, buddy?"

"Uh, yeah. Better, but it's all woozy in here." He pointed to his head.

"Shake it off, bud." John shrugged out of his sweaty jacket. "Take this." He passed it to Sam, dragged a forearm across his brow, daubing off the sweat and stink. "And be careful. The chloroform bottle is in there. Make sure it's not leaking. If there's some water around, get it. Stuff is all over my hands."

Sam kept the coat as far from his face as he could, frisked the pocket for the bottle and secured the cap. Wadding it like a soiled diaper, he pushed the leather jacket under the seat, wiped his hands on his jeans. He clawed through items on the floor, grabbing a flask. "Holy water okay?"

"Yes, anything."

Sam passed it over the seat. "Do you think we got away?"

"Apron man saw us." John splashed his hands while alternating his grip on the wheel. Wiping his palms on his shirt, he gave them a hesitant, distant sniff to make sure most of the chloroform had washed away. Satisfied, he passed the flask back to Sam. "We'll know soon enough if he got the license plate." He glanced around him, attempting to get his bearings, noted they'd crossed the river and were heading west. Fine. Didn't matter where they went as long as they got gone, and got gone fast. Winding through the back streets, John merged onto Route 66, westbound, kept his speed in check despite his inclination to floor it. He couldn't risk blowing everything on a traffic violation.

The air in the car cleared, though Sam continued to cough and absently rub his eyes. Swiveling his attention to his brother, Sam hunched over the seat and studied him with both awe and concern. "Look at him, Dad. His hair. It's lighter than it used to be. How come?"

"It's summer. He's obviously spent a lot of time in the sun."

"Huh. And it's so long. I don't think it's been cut since, well, since he disappeared. And he was due for cut then!"

John side-eyed the unconscious boy spilled into a messy heap on the seat next to him. He adjusted one of Dean's arms that'd bent at an odd angle when he shoved him into the car. A light, surfy foam dribbled from the corner of his mouth as he drew in labored, scratchy breaths. John smoothed his son's hair and gave him a pat. "Don't worry. Least of our worries right now."

"He didn't recognize us at all. Not even a little. But he remembered everything about cars. Why does he remember cars but not us?"

"I don't know, bud. I don't know."

"What's happening to him, Dad?"

"We'll find out, Sam. We'll find out and we'll make the sonsabitches who did this to him pay. You can count the hell on that."

"It's been months, Dad. He's been missing for months. He never tried to get away, never called Uncle Bobby. He'd have called Uncle Bobby if he couldn't reach us, but he didn't. Nothing. And he wasn't pretending. I know Dean. He really didn't recognize us. You suppose those people did something to him to make him forget us…make him believe they were his parents? How're we gonna change it all back?"

John rolled his shoulders. "I'm not positive _they_ did anything. I cased those two, tested them both, even the girl. They're human. They might be in on it, though. We're gonna find out one way or the other."

"Witches?" Sam offered. "Do you think they put a spell on him? Part of some freaky kid-snatching ring?"

"Maybe. First things first, though. We're gonna get Dean to a safe place, find a way to undo what they've done, and then we'll worry about taking them out. Those folks could also be civvies, as much of a victim as Dean. We just don't know." John stole another glance at his son, making a cursory examination. He'd swear Dean had grown taller, developed more muscle. He looked to be in great shape. Whatever number those people had pulled on him, whatever their involvement was or wasn't, at least they'd taken good care of him.

"He's sweating really bad, Dad. Look."

Sweat stains had bloomed on Dean's chest and underarms, a thick sheen covering his face and neck. The muscles in his arms and legs jerked with small spasms. His troubled breaths came in wet rasps, making John wince. The chloroform must have burned his throat.

"He's fine. It's hot in the car if you hadn't noticed." He glimpsed Sam's worried eyes then shifted back to the road. He wasn't about to add to the kid's stress.

"Your eye's bleeding."

John palmed the blood away from his stinging cheek. "He got me good. I think he hit bone. Another half-inch closer to my eye and he'd have blinded me. But that's good. That's what we want, fighting back like that. My boy's definitely still in there."

"I don't understand it. Why would somebody just plunk Dean into a different family? And how could they make it so he didn't know us?"

"I already told you, I don't know Sam."

"What's the point? Why do it at all? They didn't hurt him. Or us. Why didn't they hurt him, Dad? I mean, he looked good, you know? He seemed, I don't know, he seemed—happy."

"I said I don't know."

"_Three months_, Dad. It's been three months."

"You already said that, now settle down."

Three months. Like he could forget waking up on Sam's 10th birthday to find Dean's bed empty, his amulet, the _one _item he never took off, not even to shower, lying coiled on his pillow. Their life since that awful morning, had become an odyssey of worry and grief, zig-zagging back and forth across the country, grasping at every straw, following whatever wispy scent they'd caught or thought they'd caught—how could he forget? Each lead had turned out to be a goose chase, every seeming clue had left them both empty-handed and devastated.

John had talked with other hunters, some of them more dangerous than the twisted nightmares they hunted, had visited several hoodoo priests, came away from all of them without so much as a whiff of Dean. Finally, a call to the psychic in Lawrence had paid off, and they'd eaten pavement to Albuquerque on her say-so. Tracking him took a few days, then staking him out, finding the right opportunity to retrieve him, took a few more.

"But is he gonna be okay? I mean, we…we gotta do something, Dad. How are we gonna fix it?" Sam was losing his shit, his thoughts nothing more than cyclical, repetitive ramblings. Normally John could count on the boy being professional, sometimes too much so. He'd always been the cool, methodical one. Fought his battles with his intellect, even at age ten. But this was Dean in trouble now, and Sam couldn't cope. And John didn't have time for it.

He bared his fangs. "Jesus, Sam. I said one thing at a goddamned time. Now stop with the Twenty Questions! Let me think!" Sam recoiled, pinned him with a look of shocked hurt then followed it up with a blistering huff. He flopped back in his seat, folding rebellious arms and looking out the window. After a moment he pushed away, ignoring John as he settled on his knees, watching over Dean. He reached across the seat and smoothed Dean's top that'd rucked up during the struggle.

Craning and cracking his neck, John massaged the steering wheel with his palms. He devoured several cleansing breaths and cleared his throat, his tone level now, as close to repentant as John Winchester ever came. "Let's just get the hell out'a town, make sure the cops aren't on our tail before we tackle anything else, okay? Now, get the map, Sammy. I gotta figure out where in the hell we are."

Sam sighed, rooted through the glove compartment until he found the right map. Unfolding it, he traced his finger along the page, locating their approximate position. "We're heading west. There aren't any big cities for a while, a few small towns, then Gallup in about 150 miles. We have enough gas to get there?"

Before John could answer, Dean gurgled deep in his throat. His diaphragm stuttered, the only warnings they had before he vomited viscous, brown goo all over himself and the seat.

"Turn him, Sam!" John threw out a desperate hand, twisted Dean so he wouldn't aspirate. "Get him!"

Sam tossed the map behind him and worked to get his brother onto his side. Dean's bloodshot eyes flew open for a fleeting instant as another wave of chocolaty vomit splashed the seat and foot well.

Sam turned stricken eyes on his father. "What's happening, Dad?"

John took the chance to pull over. "Is he breathing?"

"Yeah, but he's still gagging. Why? What's happening? Oh yuck, it's coming out his nose, too. Help him, Dad!" Sam's gag reflex kicked in, though the boy swallowed against it, sucking in deep breaths with round eyes.

"Stay with me, kiddo. Don't lose it now. I can't do this without you."

Sam wiped his nose, a few more swallows then, "I'm here, Dad. I'm okay."

"Good boy." John tugged Dean to him, removed the teen's backpack and rested him against his chest, rubbing his back as the scent of stomach bile and brownies hit the man's nose like a freight train. John peeled Dean's eyes open one at a time, making sure they responded to light. He hugged the unconscious kid to him. Dean's stomach lurched again, painted John's shirt with more chocolaty bile. "I'm sorry, buddy. I'm so sorry. I had to do it. I didn't have a choice."

"What, Dad? What happened? What'd you do?"

"It's all right, Sam. The chloroform made him a little sick. Irritated his eyes and throat, upset his stomach."

"A little sick? This isn't _a little sick_. He can barely breathe."

"He's breathing fine." _Mostly fine_, he thought, but he didn't have time to split hairs with Sam.

"This sucks, Dad."

John's hard stare fell on the child. "I had no choice. I had to get him in the car. Damn kid fought me tooth and nail. But I screwed up. The rag stayed on him too long. I had too many balls in the air during the getaway, should've taken it off as soon as we got in the car. But he's gonna be all right. He's breathing. He'll heal."

"Sure, after we almost _kill_ him. Some rescue…" Sam's neck corded as he hurled the accusation at his father.

John ignored the comment. "Now just watch him and stay calm. We'll stop as soon as we can. We'll take care of him, I promise. Get me another rag or something. We'll clean him up as best we can and we'll get back on the road. We don't want some _good Samaritan_ stopping to see if we're okay."

Sam combed through some items cast around the backseat until he found an old shirt of Dean's under the seat and passed it to his dad.

"Get a few more if you can for the seat." John began sopping up the mess, wiping Dean's lips and nose with gentle strokes.

Sam grabbed a couple more shirts and spread them across the seat, soaking up the vomit. "You can put him down now, Dad." Sam placed one more flannel under Dean's head where it lay against his dad's chest to cushion it and protect him from the vomit seeping down John's top. "I got him, Dad."

"No. Let's shift him the other way, leave his head in my lap."

"But what if he throws up again?"

John snorted. "I'm already soaked. I think I can handle it, buddy."

Once they got Dean situated, John merged back onto the highway. "We'll stop for the night as soon as we can and look after him properly then. For now, let's widen the gap between us and Albuquerque."

**i**

Sunset crawled across the desert floor in splashes of gold and dusty-blue when John pulled off the highway.

Sam blinked and stretched, peering around him. "Gallup?"

John nodded. "We'll stay the night here." He steered the car into the parking lot of a frowsy motel and parked at the far end, away from the office. "Roll up the windows. We don't want anyone getting an eyeful." Before opening the door, John bent down, stroked his son's hair, made sure Dean was sleeping comfortably. His throat scraped with each breath, but he hadn't moved or thrown up since Albuquerque.

"How is he, Dad?" Sam finished rolling up the windows.

"Out cold. We'll take care of him as soon as we get into the room. I have to check us in. Get my jacket, Sam."

"Your jacket? Why? It's too hot. It stinks like chloroform."

"Just do as I say."

Sam unearthed the leather jacket and handed it to his father. The man rifled through the pocket, retrieved a set of handcuffs. "Dad?"

John said nothing. He grabbed Dean's wrist and cuffed it to the steering column.

"Dad, what are you doing?"

"I told you. I have to check in. Watch him. He probably won't wake, but just in case—" He nudged his chin toward the handcuffs. Draping his coat over the steering wheel to hide it, he placed his hand on Sam's head.

"Uh, Dad…" Sam's eyes went to his soiled shirt.

Glancing down, John considered the vomit. He gave it a weak shrug. "Fuck it. They can think what they like. I'll be right back. Don't move."

After a few minutes, Sam cracked the back window an inch for some air and to help dissipate the lingering sour odors. Dean took great pride in the car's upkeep, more so than their dad did anymore, and when he woke, he'd be pissed about the upchuck. He would if he remembered the car, that is.

Sam blew a worried breath through his lips, assessing his brother. It was definitely Dean. Well, mostly Dean. The jeans, yeah, they made sense, knees muddied as though he'd passed the night digging a grave with their dad. But then there was the tank top, definitely not his brother's style, too thin, too…white. And his tanned skin, now, that was a surprise. Sam didn't think it was possible for his brother to tan. He'd always burned then peeled afterward. Apparently he'd spent enough time in the sun that he'd been able to build a foundation, enough time to bleach his hair like some kid enjoying a leisurely summer vacation. Not Dean. Not Dean at all.

And his sneakers? Wow, they were downright laughable. Dean himself would be embarrassed—if he were himself, that is—way too impractical for hunting, useless in an emergency. Their thin canvas and soft soles offered no traction, no speed. Any ticked off vengeful spirit would end him without bothering to juice up with ectoplasm first. No way would he be able to escape in those clodhoppers, as Dean would have called them. Sam decided his brother looked like any kid his age, and _that_ was the problem. Dean wasn't just any kid. Dean kicked ass at everything: running, shooting, sparring, lock-picking. You name it, he could do it. He'd spent every day of his life hanging on their dad's stories, soaking up as much hunter training as his dad would allow, taking care of Sam, always taking such good care of him. Sam knuckled away a tear. It had been a long, long three months. The longest ever.

He recalled how Dean'd acted when he'd approached them today. Again, he'd been recognizable yet foreign at the same time. Of course, Sam wasn't surprised Dean knew all about cars. In fact, he had no doubt the Impala had a bonafide piston slap. His dad had ridden the car into the ground during their search for Dean and had given it no more than the bare minimum of attention, too much other stuff to worry about. Before he'd been snatched, Dean'd been the one to perform the Impala's day-to-day maintenance, anyway. He'd made certain she always ran smooth. Sam'd have to remember to grab some Sea Foam once Dean was better. He was certain they were out of it. All of that stuff made sense.

But riding a bike? That did not compute. He had no memory of Dean ever learning. They'd never had a bicycle, not that he could recall, anyway. Maybe that man and woman who'd stolen him taught him how to ride. But no, that made no sense. Why would they teach him that? Monsters kidnapping people and—what—caring for them? Taking them to Disneyland? Treating them like family? How and wh—

"We're right here, Sam. Room 8." His dad startled him from his thoughts.

He raised his head, blinked stupidly at his father. "Huh?"

John opened the door, gathering items. "Sam, get your head out'a your ass. We're right here at the end." His dad pointed. "And roll up the goddamn window like I asked. Do you want us to get caught?"

"No, Dad."

John flung Dean's backpack at him. "Take this with you. We can't leave it out here."

"Got it." Sam shouldered the pack and slid out of the car.

"Grab this, too. Open the door and stay out of the way." John tossed him the room key and bent in to unlock the handcuffs.

Sam did exactly as John told him, remaining silent and on task. In the year and a half since he'd been brought into the loop about the "family business", he'd seen plenty of hunts-gone-wrong. He knew enough to know this was a crucial moment. The boy's eyes scurried around the empty parking lot. Cars flew by on the highway, but nobody paid them any attention. Between the sun lipping the western horizon and the large tree shading both their parking space and entranceway, the Winchesters appeared as nothing more than slate-colored ghosts in the twilight.

John made the transfer in less than ten seconds. "Get the bags and the first aid kit from the car and lock the doors. I'll clean up the mess and air it out later." John settled Dean on the bed and gave Sam the car key.

Again, Sam made short work of it, performing his part without any question. Once back inside the drab room, he shut and locked the door. "Here." He waited for his dad to finish taking Dean's pulse then offered him the first aid kit. He dumped the rest of the bags on the other bed. Watching his dad remove Dean's vomit-stained shirt, he headed for the bathroom, "I'll get some towels."

John called after him, "Good man."

Sam returned and passed his dad the warm, wet cloth first. "Is he okay?"

John washed Dean's chest, hands and face, taking great care around his nose and mouth where the red skin had festered into a series of small blisters. "He's had worse, a lot worse. He'll be fine. He always is." Dean twitched away from the cloth, small moans and whimpers pouring into the air. "I know, bud. That's nasty stuff. I'm sorry." His dad tried to soothe him. Despite the drugs, however, hearing John's voice sent the boy into an incoherent panic, fanning his limbs, trying to ward off or fight the man in his sleep. "Settle down, now. You're all right. Dean…Dean, stop." John pinned his arms, but that only served to upset his son more.

Sam broke in, placed his palm on Dean's forehead. "Hey, Will…shhhh, it's all right. Okay? Will, it's gonna be okay."

"Sam…don't."

Sam's voice dipped. "He doesn't know anything else, Dad. He's freaking out." Sam caressed his brother's hair, refused to give in to his dad, not with Dean struggling like this. No way. "You're fine, Will. You're okay. You're safe." Sam continued to speak in quiet, calming tones until Dean settled. Focused on his father, now, his brows worked and his words took an icy turn. "See? I told you."

"Yes, but you shouldn't encourage it. That's not his name."

"It is to him! At least right now it is. We know who he is, he doesn't. Not his fault."

"Okay, Sam. Point taken, but mind your damn tone with me." Anger backlit his words as he rummaged through the first aid kit and applied Vaseline to the burns and Visine to Dean's red-rimmed eyes. The two fell into an uneasy silence as they worked.

After a moment, Sam ventured, "Are his eyes burned?"

"No, just the skin around them. And it's just chemical irritation." John lifted one lid then another, giving Dean's eyes a thorough washing.

"_Just_ irritation?"

John jutted his chin at Sam. "Don't give me that look, Sam. Dean's aware of the risks in this game."

"No he's not. He's not aware of _anything_ right now, Dad. All he knows is that we've kidnapped and hurt him."

"Well, once we sort everything out he'll be the first one to understand what I did and why. Now, toss me one of his shirts."

Sam found a wrinkled Metallica t-shirt, sniffed it, deemed it clean enough, though it smelled musty from several months of disuse at the bottom of a duffel. Handing it to his dad, he sighed. "How're we gonna undo this? What do we have to do?"

"We'll work it out. Getting him back was our priority. Which reminds me, switch on the TV. We gotta watch the news to see if that shopkeeper made us. Have all our bags ready to go. Don't get settled. We may have to run without notice."

"But Dean's hurt. He needs rest."

"I said we'll stay here for the night if we can. Dean's not in danger. He's drugged and the chloroform was a piss-poor choice, but it's not fatal. He's breathing. His pulse is slow but that's from the tranquilizer. He's stopped vomiting. He'll be fine. Stop worrying." John hooked a pair of cuffs around Dean's wrist again, attached it to the bedpost. He did the same to one of his ankles, adding a short chain and hooking it to the other side, binding him diagonally so that he wouldn't fall off the bed.

"Dad! Do you have to do both? He's not even awake."

"Can't afford the risk, kiddo. He should sleep until tomorrow, but we can't count on anything. You said it yourself, all he knows is he's been kidnapped. He wakes…he's not gonna be too inclined to hang around. You know that. We got a bandana in there?"

Sam raised his eyes in confusion but opened the bag, fished out a blue bandana. "What do you want this for?"

"What do you think? Give it to me."

Sam's mouth fell open. "No Dad, don't. Let him be. He's having a hard enough time breathing as it is. I'll make sure he's quiet."

John grabbed the bandana, twined it in his fingers, considering. "If he so much as moves a pinky, you tell me."

"I will. I promise."

Tossing the bandana back to Sam, John stood, pinched his vomit-spattered shirt, stretching it away from his skin. He wrenched his head to the side, whistled in a steadying breath, "Whoa mother, goddamn I need a shower. I'm gonna lay salt down and hit the head to clean up, five minutes. I'll leave the door ajar. Call me if he moves. Then, I'm sending you out for some chow while I watch him. We passed a taco joint a few blocks back. We're gonna have to keep up our strength. It's gonna be a hell of a time for the next…well, however long this takes."

Sam didn't feel hungry at all, but he knew his dad wouldn't let it go, so he nodded. "Okay, but I'm getting something for Dean, too. Just in case he's hungry when he wakes."

His dad's eyes softened for the first time in weeks. "Sure, kiddo. Of course."

With Sam off to buy tacos, John Winchester spooled through his damp hair as he sat on the bed opposite his unconscious son. Christ. He was fighting a battle against an unnamed, unseen enemy, a monster who'd robbed his boy of the one thing he held most sacred—his family. If this was that bastard…that same unholy bastard that took Mary…

"I'll kill you, you sonofabitch." He shouldered away a tear that snaked down his cheek as he compulsively raked his hands up and down his thighs. "You do this to my boy? You'll pay. I swear to God, whoever you are, whatever you are…_you're dead_."

Sniffing, he cleared his throat then dialed the phone, tapped his fingers impatiently against his jeans while he waited for her to pick up. After three rings, he heard the familiar, warm drawl on the other end.

"John Winchester, that you, honey?"

John couldn't suppress a snort. "How'd you know?"

"Well, that's what I do, of course. I had a feelin' I'd be hearin' from you today."

"I found him, Missouri. I got him. Right where you said he'd be. But everything's fucked."

"John Winchester, you cuss one more time and I'll wallop you into next week, you hear me?" There was a pause as the indignant woman composed herself. "Now slow down, mind your manners an' tell me, what's happened."

"They did something to him. He's changed. And this isn't some bizarro case of Stockholm Syndrome, either. This is something deeper. He doesn't know us. We've cased him for a week, now. Followed him to the grocery store, to the park. Been close enough to touch. He looks right through us every time. Not so much as a spark. Believes he's lived with those people his entire life."

"Slow down, John. Take a br—"

"Everything, all of it, every memory gone. No, strike that. They're not just gone, they've been rewritten or overwritten. Hell I don't know. I broke into his school, got a hold of his records. They go all the way back to kindergarten, detailed records, too, like he's been there this whole time, like he's been yanked out of one life and shoved into another, seamlessly. And that family who had him, Missouri, they're human. I made sure. I got no idea what's happening here, no idea who I'm up against let alone how to undo this. Are they trying to get to me through Dean? Is that their endgame? Hurting me?"

"I don't know. I'm so sorry, John."

"_Sorry_ does me squat, Missouri. What I need is information. I'm playing blind, here. I can't undo this if I don't know who's doing what and why. Have you picked up anything?"

The woman grunted with impatience. "Boy, you think I'm one of Dionne Warwick's psychic friends? I don't have the answers neat as that. I don't. But—" Her voice trailed off, unwilling or uncertain how to proceed.

"But what? Don't hide the truth from me, Missouri. Tell me whatever you know, good or bad."

"Know? I don't _know_ anything for certain."

"Is it what took Mary? Is it?"

Missouri hesitated for a second, then, "It ain't that. I'm certain of it. But there's something different about this. It ain't nothing I've ever sensed before now. I don't understand it."

"A Djinn, maybe?"

"No, not a Djinn."

"But Djinn's can change reality." John refused to give up hope for an easy fix.

"No they can't. Djinns change people's _perception_ of reality. That's a whole lot'a difference, John. But the poor boy ain't the only one affected, here. The couple who been actin' as his mama and daddy, unless they're in on this, they've been altered as well. Think about it, John. That means his extended family, too: aunts , uncles, his friends, teachers—they've all been affected, ripple after ripple, moving out like a big shockwave. Ain't no way it's a Djinn. They don't have that kind'a juice. Ain't much that does, not for somethin' like this. This is real _power_, John. An' I'm warning you, you got to be so very careful right now. This power, it's—it's _pure_."

"Meaning…?" When Missouri made no response, John huffed and pinched the bridge of his nose, growing angry. "Say something, dammit. And don't you tell me not to swear, either. I've had enough of this. I'll say what I like. Now, out with it."

The woman sighed, her voice timid, more uncertain, more fearful, than John had ever heard it. "Ever since you first come to me after your boy went missing, ever since the night you called, I been pickin' up this…oh, I dunno…this _vibration_, I guess you could call it. Only way to describe it. It ain't nothin' like what took your wife, neither. That was the darkest evil. That come through right away. Left a stain behind. But this…this John…when I close my eyes I see…"

"See what…?"

"I see _White_."

John cocked his head, his brows stewing in confusion. Whatever he'd expected to hear, it wasn't that. "What the hell is that supposed to mean— you see _White_?"

"It's White against Black, John. The whole world. You hear me? White against Black on down the ages. And White's just made a powerful move."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I think you know what I'm talkin' about. John—" Missouri's timbre softened, like she was in a church. "I mean…the source is _Divine_, of course."

"Divine…" John chewed the word as though he'd never spoken it.

"Yes, honey."

"Divine as in—what—? No! There's no way in hell."

"No way in _Hell_ is right. Aim higher…much higher."

"You're saying _God_ did this?"

"God? Well, I dunno about _that_. But whatever done this to your boy, done it using The Almighty's means. One of his agents, maybe. An' He don't parcel out His Grace to just anybody, John. You don't wanna go up against this. Looks to me like what happened must'a happened for a reason. So, you got to be careful. Might be this ain't yours to question or change."

"The hell it isn't. _The hell it isn't_." John stood and stormed around the room, his eyes glued to his son lying motionless on the bed. "I don't give one good goddamn where this power comes from. Someone took my boy from me, and I will be damned if I let them get away with it."

"John Winchester, you listen to me, now—"

"No. You listen to _me_. I'm Dean's father, no one else. I decide what's best for him. Not one goddamned thing you've said makes any sense. There's no reason for anyone, let alone _God_—which is a huge stretch…bastard probably doesn't even exist—there's no reason for him to nab Dean and erase his memories. If this were some all-consuming cosmic goddamned plan to have Dean with those people, then why the hell didn't God just erase our memories, too? You remember Dean. Bobby remembers Dean. Sam and I _sure as hell_ remember Dean. How come, huh? You tell me that! If God…_your God, _lady, not mine," he spat the name with venom on his tongue, "…if _your God_ is so powerful, why didn't he change everything and everyone?"

"It's odd, I'll grant you."

"If he's so all-knowing like you say, he'd know I'd get my boy back come hell or high heaven—I don't care which. There's no way he wouldn't know that." John paused, but not long enough to let the psychic respond. "No, whoever did this wanted me to remember. It wants something, but it isn't gonna get it. No damn way. I don't give a shit where this power comes from. I'm challenging it. So, what do I gotta do to fight this, huh?"

Sympathy threaded Missouri's words. "I don't know, John. The whole thing is strange, and I don't understand why He would do it, but this ain't something I could fight even if I felt inclined to do so. I—I done enough, here. I can't help you more than this. God's ways may be mysterious, but they ain't evil. They couldn't be evil. He does what He does for the glory of his Kingdom. I got to believe…I got to believe it. I can't go any further. I'm a Christian, a god-fearing woman, John, and I won't go against my Maker. I'm sorry."

"I don't care what you are or who you fear. You tell me how to turn this off."

"You're not hearin' me, honey. I told you. I don't know. Ain't no power I know of can bend His will. Only thing might help is to find someone who practices the old ways of White Magic, someone who can offer a spell, restore your boy's lost memories, maybe. But that won't bend back reality the way it was, won't take away the fact that those other folks believe he's theirs. And they're gonna come lookin' for him, too. You got to know that. So, you're gonna need a powerful soul for this. All I know for certain is it…it ain't me. I don't have that kind'a strength. I'm a Sensitive, I'm not a mage."

"Someone? Who? You mean like a shaman?" John stopped pacing, flipping through his internal rolodex.

"Yes, a shaman, a medicine man, a white witch, any one of those should be able to help, provided they're strong enough."

"Strong enough…right. Right. That gives me a place to start, though."

"In the meantime, you got to castle that boy, get him out of the way. He's standin' on a white square, and it ain't safe."

"Stop talking in riddles, woman."

John heard a scatter of frustrated laughter. "Oh, John, I dearly wish you'd wake up. What I mean is I'm sensin' others will be lookin' in your direction soon. You got to be gone by tomorrow, soon as you can. Take that boy away from where ever you are, take him where he won't be seen."

He checked his watch. "Yeah, okay. Thanks Missouri."

"You're welcome, John. I'll be praying for that boy of yours, and for you."

John released a bullish snort. "You do that. And while you're at it, you give _your God_ a message from me. You tell that bastard if he touches my son again, if he's done anything I can't undo, I'm coming for him, and I'm bringing an arsenal with me. You got that?" He slammed down the phone before the woman could utter anything more than a shocked, gaspy _John!_

John sat on the edge of Dean's bed, trying to wrap his head around what he'd just learned. Running his fingers over the kid's smooth, tanned arm, the tears came.

"I'll fix this, kiddo. I swear I will, but I need you to fight this thing with me. Sam and me, we need you. We're a mess since you've been gone. Shit, you wouldn't believe what a mess we are. That kid…" He shook his head, sighed. "So, I need you to hear me, way down deep. We'll do our part. You do yours. Fight it."

When John heard the secret knock, he composed himself, swiped his arm under his nose and blinked his eyes dry. He opened the door.

"They forgot the hot sau—" Sam stopped on the threshold, frozen by the anxiety and fear written in John's face. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Get in." John drew his son into the room and closed the door, locked it.

Sam ran to Dean, no doubt fearing he'd taken a turn for the worse. "Something's wrong. What is it?"

"He's fine, Sam. We're fine. I talked to a friend who gave me some good intel, gave me somewhere to start. We're gonna help Dean, but I can't do it alone. So, eat your dinner and then get some sleep. No argument."

"Dad—"

"I said _no argument_, Sam, and I mean it. Dean needs you. I know where we've gotta go. So, eat up and get some rest. Dean's not gonna sleep forever. When he wakes, things could get ugly. Don't forget that. Don't let down your guard. You gotta prepare yourself for a struggle, both mental and physical. I'll probably have to do and say things to Dean that you're not gonna like. I'm not gonna like it, either, but I need you with me on this one, okay?"

Sam had figured Dean wouldn't be glad to see them, but with that harsh reality now on their doorstep, his heart sank. His voice quavered, "Okay, Dad."

"That's my boy. Tomorrow we'll move out. The sooner we get somewhere quiet and out of sight the better. We have a hell of a long drive ahead of us."

"Where're we going?"

"I need to see an old friend. But no more questions for now. I'm done in. Let's eat."

Sam deflated, his eyes darting to his brother. "This whole thing sucks."

"Yeah, buddy. Don't I know it."

_**TBC**_


	3. Poisoned Pawn

_**J'adoube**_

**Chapter Three: Poisoned Pawn**

He'd waited for it all night. Rigid and keyed up, he'd polished his son's amulet, sawed his finger over and over its horns, pressing into them with the soft pad of his thumb until they'd left indents. He'd mentally and physically braced himself as his vigil crawled toward morning, watching the boy tick and whicker in his drugged sleep. Strange how it came as a shock, then, Dean's abrupt return to life with a coltish lurch. John's body jolted as if he'd been struck by lightning.

Dean flailed this way and that, trying to rise. The cuffs at either end of the bed stymied his movement, and in his doped confusion he stuttered about like a swing wobbling between its chains.

John splayed a hand behind him, shuddered Sam awake. "Here we go," was all he said, but it was enough. The boy scrambled from the bed, blinking the sleep away, getting his head in the game. He'd been waiting for this too.

Dean's first word crunched like thin ice. "Hhhheyyy!" He attempted to brush off the handcuff, scolding it when it didn't comply. "Hhheyy!" John knew the kid's thoughts were still too loose-spooled to recognize it for what it was. Dean smacked his lips, pleated his brows as he tried to make sense of it. "What the..."

"Shhh." John stepped close, waved a warning to Sam, signaled him to stay put. He encircled the teen's wrist with his large, calloused hand. "Shhh, don't do that, now. You'll hurt yourself."

Muddled, Dean squinted at the man through one eye; the other remaining glued to his bottom lash. "Dad?"'

John's heart leapt. He sat on the bed, gripped Dean's shoulders. "Yeah kiddo, it's me. You with me?"

Dean tottered, scraped his tongue against his teeth, more interested in the sour taste that had crawled in there and not liking it one bit. Fanning out his tongue, he worked saliva around his mouth to rinse the paste away. His curiosity in that soon wavered, though, and he tugged the handcuff again, still trying to parse out what it was and why he couldn't get it off. John jiggled his shoulders to bring him around.

"Son. Hey…hey…you with me?"

The teen pinched his eyes with his free hand, unsticking the gluey one, scanning the man's face, taking time to focus. And as he did so, John witnessed his son's last conscious memories wash over his face as he internally fast-forwarded through the entire abduction. His eyes mushroomed, morphed from drugged lassitude to stone-cold terror in a matter of seconds. Dean's back arched as he dragged in an audible breath, cranking up his inner engine to let loose with an ear-shattering scream. But John had been waiting for this, too.

"Don't!" John clamped his hand over the boy's mouth. "Don't!" he reiterated, shifting on the bed, using his weight to subdue the frightened adolescent. "Don't do it. You're safe. We're not gonna hurt y—_Ohmotherfucker!_"

Pain sliced through John's palm, sizzling up and into his elbow. Damn boy had latched on and was gnawing like a rabid beaver. John worked to remove the teeth while straining to maintain coverage over Dean's mouth, but the kid had jaws of fucking steel and only bit harder when he moved.

"God dammit, kid. God dammit, son! Stop!"

John had no desire to go this route, but with Dean bucking like a wild bronco beneath him and his hand in danger of sustaining nerve damage, he had no choice. John drew his Colt from his waistband and pointed it at his son. He'd removed the bullets, of course, just in case something like this played out, but Dean didn't know that.

"Let go, son. I'm not playing games."

Dean's body froze mid-throe, his eyes ballooning with fear. He let go of John's palm with a terrified whimper.

"God…fuck…my fuck!" John huffed and puffed but kept his hand in place over Dean's mouth. After a few pained breaths to recover his cool, he continued, his voice quiet with deadly threat. "Okay, we're gonna try this again. We're not gonna hurt you. But if you scream, if you try to escape, I'm gonna find that sister of yours and I'm gonna make you sorry you didn't cooperate." His son's eyes sprinted around the room in a panic, no doubt worried the girl had been taken, too.

"Dad…" Sam's malediction came from somewhere behind him. John ignored it.

John put the boy's fear to rest. "She's not here. Macy's at home. She's safe. But that'll change if you don't settle down and do _exactly_ as I say. I have friends watching her. One wrong move and I'll make the call. You get me? We clear?"

Dean blinked and nodded. He said something incoherent, his words smothered beneath John's palm.

"I'm gonna move my hand. And we're gonna have a quiet chat. Deal?"

Dean nodded again.

John removed his hand tentatively, testing Dean's reaction, ready to clamp down if the kid tried anything. He didn't. John put a finger to his lips, ignored the runnel of blood sluicing toward his wrist. His words tick-tocked, soft and steady, like a metronome, "Shhh. Quiet. Calm. Easy. Good."

He stayed close, tucked into Dean's space, crowding him as he assessed the boy's physical and psychological state.

Dean strove to stay still as John had commanded, but his whole body quivered and shivered with adrenaline and fear. Blood covered his nose and mouth, not all of it John's either. During the altercation most of the small blisters under his nose and around his mouth had popped, stretching and rending the skin underneath.

"Get some towels, Sam."

Sam ran to the bathroom and returned quickly, passing the towels to his father. Wadding one, John wiped Dean's mouth, chin and nose while the boy traced his every movement. The poor kid's chest hiccupped beneath John's elbow while he worked, engaged in a fierce battle to remain calm. He was struggling, but he was doing it. God love him, his boy was doing it.

"You're doing good, son." He sought to encourage him as if this were nothing more than an intense training exercise. "Keep it up." Taking the second towel, John wound it around his wounded palm, applying one-handed pressure while keeping the gun poised in his other.

"Now let's just take some deep breaths, here. Relax. Can you do that?" Dean nodded and took several strained breaths as his eyes combed the room, settling on John.

He started to say something but stopped.

"It's okay to speak as long as you're quiet and calm."

The teen took a deep breath, then, "Don't hurt my sister." The demand came out garbled by chloroform and long sleep. He pinched his brows, cleared his throat and tried again. "Don't hurt Macy."

"Like I said. You cooperate, she'll be fine. I promise you. I'm sorry about your throat. I know it feels like you swallowed fire. It'll be scratchy for a couple of days, but you'll be fine."

Dean paused, worked up the courage to ask his next question, then, "Where—where am I?"

"That information is on a need-to-know basis, and you don't need to know." Defiance kindled in Dean's eyes at that. John picked up a glass of water from the bedside table he'd set there during his vigil. "Here, drink this."

He brought the glass to Dean's lips, but he clamped this mouth shut, twisted away.

John sighed. "You know," he offered it again, and again Dean cranked his neck, refusing, "when you find yourself captured by the enemy, the last thing you want to do is refuse food and water. It only makes you more vulnerable, weakens you." He cocked his head. "Just a little bit of friendly advice."

Dean's face hardened. With the shock of his predicament passing, John could see the boy erecting his defenses. "Thanks for the tip, there, Patton. I think I'll pass."

John suppressed a smile. So like his son. "Suit yourself." He shrugged, set down the glass. Settling back, he drew Dean's attention, hovered in his line-of-sight. "Do I look familiar to you?"

Dean opened his mouth with a truculent snort. "Yeah, you're the spitting image of the pervy freak who kidnapped me."

_Here we go_, indeed. "Watch that smart mouth of yours, kiddo." When he reached across Dean to check his cuffs, the boy flinched and panted, fearing the worst.

"Relax. I'm not gonna touch you like that, you hear me? You have my goddamn word. I just want to make sure you haven't hurt yourself." He spoke with such emphatic, fatherly sincerity that Dean relaxed and let him check the restraints. They hadn't broken skin yet, but they were well on the way.

John waved the gun toward the cuffs. "Same deal? I take these off, let you sit up, let you hit the head, and you cooperate. Yes?"

Dean nodded.

"Sam, key's on the table, there. Bring it to me." Taking the key from Sam, John opened the cuff, watching Dean the whole time. He ticked his head toward Sam. "This is Sam. I'm John."

"Yeah, I remember everything."

Sam gasped, lunged forward. "You do?" John warded off Sam's charge, halting him with a hand to his chest.

"Yeah yesterday…remember? You introduced yourselves right before your dad Jeffrey-Dahmer'd me. Remember that, Pugsley? 'Cause I sure do."

Disappointed, Sam slumped, withered away from Dean's biting sarcasm. John moved to the foot of the bed and unlocked the ankle-cuff and motioned for Sam to step away.

John swiped his bloody hand over his stubble. "Let's get you up and moving. Got to tinkle?" He grabbed Dean under his armpits and helped him sit. "Stay right here…one last thing." He took the handcuff, put it on Dean's other wrist and shackled it to his own, tethering them together.

"You're kidding! I ain't going to the bathroom with you!"

"We'll work it out, Dean. Don't worry about that."

"Dean?"

John hadn't realized he'd used the name, but it had to happen sooner or later. He took a big, cleansing breath, sat back down.

"Yes, _Dean_."

"But my name is—"

"Dean." John cut him off.

"Are you insane? My name's Will. Will Darnell."

"No, that's kind of why we're all here. It's not. Your name is Dean Winchester. You're my son, Sam's brother."

Dean glanced from John to Sam and back, digesting, processing. "Holy cow," he said at last, tapping his temple. "You guys are more than a few sandwiches short of a picnic, aren't you?"

"I know how it sounds. But it's true, son."

Emotions—anger, hurt, fear—flushed his face. "Don't call me that! Don't you _ever_ call me that. I'm not your _son_! I'm not!" His eyes blazed. "My name is William Michael Darnell. My parents are Joseph and Cheryl Darnell. And you're…you're both crackers!"

"Keep your voice down." John brought the gun up, reminding him.

The boy modulated his voice but not his contempt. "Well you are. You're a couple of freaks. I know who I am."

"No you don't. Sorry kiddo, but you don't." John held up his hand. "Sam, get my journal."

"Yes, _I do_! I live in Albuquerque with my parents. I just graduated from John Adams Middle School this last spring. At the end of the month, I'm gonna be a freshman at West Mesa High."

John woofed disinterestedly, flipped through his journal, fingered some worn, creased photos and tossed them into Dean's lap.

The teen picked up a picture of Mary cuddling him in her arms.

"Your name is Dean Winchester. You were born January 24th, 1979. Your mother's name was Mary. She loved you more than life itself." John's voice took a quiet, reverent tack. "That one there," he said as Dean dropped the first photo and grabbed another, a snapshot of him at about ten years of age, carrying a smiling Sam piggyback, "that one is you and Sam a few years ago. And this one," he pointed to another, "was taken just five months ago. Bobby snapped that at his place in South Dakota. We were doing some target practice." Dean raised his eyebrows, traced a finger over the gun the boy in the shot proudly displayed. "That's my son. That's Dean." Dean met his eye. John nudged his chin toward the pictures. "That's my boy. That's you."

Dean blinked, peered at the prints, rechecking them one at a time.

John studied him. "So, what do you think about that?"

A smug smile crept up Dean's face. "I think you had a damn good-looking son. But I'm not him. You got the wrong kid, pal."

John snorted at that. "No I don't. You make that clear with every word you say."

"So…what? You had this kid, and he looks like me? He die or something?"

"No, he's very much alive and sitting in this bed."

"You're loopy, Mister. I look like him, yeah, but it doesn't change facts. I'm not him."

"You're him, all right. And I'm sorry you have to go through this. And I get it. This feels real to you. But it isn't. The memories of that family in Albuquerque aren't real. Up until three months ago you were with us. All the memories you have of your past—all the memories of your parents, your sister, your friends—they've all been planted there by someone or something. We don't' know what yet. But we're working on it. And we're gonna fix it."

"Some…_thing_?"

"Yep. Some _thing_." John tore off the band-aid, no time for a buffer. "Could be a demon…might be ghost possession…a witch…hell, it might also be caused by a cursed object for all we know. We have to find out. You haven't picked up any strange coins or mysterious talismans lately, have you?"

Dean stared at him for several beats, head shaking, mouth gaping, caught in a loop of snort-panting until he found his words. "Ho…ho…ho…_holy shit_! Sorry Mom…" he squinted at the ceiling with a guilty shrug, "…but seriously _ho-ly shit_! You two really are insane. I mean, _insane_—insane. Like Jack Nicholson drooling in a straitjacket—insane."

"Sorry kiddo, it's all true. Every word. You're a hunter. Like me. Like Sam. We hunt supernatural creatures—ghouls, banshees, shapeshifters, poltergeists—evil creatures like the one that killed your mom." He touched the picture of Mary. "We hunt them and we kill them. We're still tracking the thing that murdered your mother—your mother, who loved and adored you more than you will ever know. We haven't found it yet, but we've killed a hell of a lot of other nightmare things, helped a lot'a people. And three months ago something happened to you. Something got you, played with your head, altered your memories. Those people you call your parents bear no relation to you. They never knew you existed, never laid eyes on you until three months ago. What they feel for you is no more real than what you feel for them. It's an illusion of some kind. And they may even be responsible for this whole thing. They may not have your best interests at heart. Trust me, son. If you were _you_ right now, if you remembered the truth, you'd be standing by my side, itching to take them out. You're my blood. And one day, you're gonna be a great hunter like your old man."

John's passionate speech had a much different effect on Dean than the one he intended. The boy's pallor turned ashen.

He raised his head. "Don't…don't hurt them. Please don't hurt my mom and dad. Don't hurt Mace. You can do whatever you want to me, just don't hurt 'em."

"I told you, I'm not gonna hurt you."

"Then, let me go! I won't tell anyone about this. I'll tell my mom and dad I ran away. I promise. I'll never say a word."

"Can't do that, son. Sorry. You're mine." John played his fingers through his boy's hair, but the kid batted him away.

"I told you not to call me that! You wanna hold a gun on me, threaten my family to make me obey your rules? Fine. But you don't get to call me that. That's _my_ rule." He jabbed his thumb at his chest. Gathering the scattered photos, he threw them at John. "Take 'em. I don't want 'em. I got tons of pictures and videos going all the way back to my mom and dad bringing my diapered ass home from the hospital, better'n these nasty, old, dog-eared things. Even if what you said was true…which it's not…'cause you're a nutjob…but even if it was, I wouldn't help you change things back, not for a million dollars! I love my family. I won't let you hurt them. I'll kill you if you try. You hear me? I don't know you or your freaky son, and I don't want to!" Sam let out a hurt sound somewhere behind him. John put up a hand, silencing him. "You think you're so badass, beating up a kid, taking him from his family? You think you're a tough-guy? Well, you just wait and see, you loon. My dad's gonna _kick your ass_!"

John's heart swelled with both pain and pride. He hated putting his son through this, hated hearing him utter those words, but he knew exactly what underpinned his child's façade. And it was incredible in a way, having this opportunity to observe Dean's wolfish loyalty, his subterranean, unshakeable devotion to family. Much as he'd like to take credit, John knew these qualities were innate to Dean. And he was a ferocious, little sonofabitch, too. This was a taste of what strangers got if they were stupid enough to step between Dean and his family. Woe to the fool who tried. It was a beautiful sight to see, or would be, if it weren't so fucking annoying being on the outside, looking in.

John rose, gun loose in his grip, alert and watchful. "We'll just see about that. But I can't argue all day with you. We have a lot to do and a long drive ahead. Now, I know you gotta piss like a Russian racehorse. Let's get you cleaned up. We'll head out in a couple hours. There's a few things we gotta do first." He displayed his bitten hand with a hiss. "Like take care of this."

Dean tracked the gun as John made the universal move-it-along gesture with it. "What, you gonna shoot me, _Daddy_? You gonna shoot your own kid? If what you say is true…if you really believe I'm your long lost son, I got a hunch you're full of crap with that gun."

The man spun around, got in his face, snarled, "Won't stop me from shooting you in the leg if I gotta. And remember, I have people watching Macy. You step out'a line one goddamn inch and I mean _one-goddamn-inch_, I'll make sure you never see her again. Don't test me, kid." John put as much drill-sergeant force behind his words as he could stomach, thumping his fist on the headboard above Dean. It got the job done, though. Dean swallowed, cowing, slanting his eyes away from the man. "Now get up. I don't want you pissing the bed."

**i**

"What are you starin' at, Puglsey?" Will said into the mirror as he swiped his hand through his freshly cut and dyed hair. The Perv had sent his creepy son to the store to buy hair dye, and then spent the next hour cutting and dying his hair. He checked himself in the mirror, dug a glob of slimy dye out of his ear with his free hand while the other remained shackled to The Perv. Pugsley waffled from one foot to the other with this unsettling expression of pensive yearning in his dewy eyes. "I said what are you lookin' at? Take a picture, it lasts longer!"

Pugsley recoiled as though he'd been struck. "I just wanted to," he paused, his voice shaking, "I wanted to say your hair looks nice. Dark brown, I like it."

"You would, you creep. Now run back to the Enterprise, y'freakin' tribble. Stop mooning at me all the time. It's not like I can't see you boring holes into me. Go away."

Pugsley shriveled into himself, heartbroken, his sad puppy eyes brimming. Doofus must've taken pointers from Macy, because guilt needled Will as he slunk away.

The Perv gave the cuff between them a quick jerk. "I know this whole thing is hard on you, but his name is Sam, not _Pugsley_, not _freak_, not _creep_. You'll address him as Sam, you hear me? You'll thank me later, trust me. You'd never treat your brother this way. You'd be ashamed to know that you did." Bastard.

"It's okay," Pugsley piped up. The Perv had the kid wrapped around his little finger, brainwashed him years ago, no doubt. "I understand."

Will gave him a haughty once-over. "I don't need you defending me, Pugsley."

The Perv put his fat hands on his shoulder, his shark-eyes narrowing. "I said enough."

Will tossed a wintry smile at the man, innocent eyelashes fluttering. "Fine. He looks more like Cousin Itt, anyway."

The man loomed over him. "Dean…"

"Oh, so I have to call him _Sam_, but you guys get to call me _Dean_? That's not my name, and I'm not gonna answer to it."

The Perv grunted at him, apparently too tired to argue. Good. The bastard had to sleep sometime. Will would be ready when that happened. For now, he'd play along to protect his family. But if opportunity came knocking, he'd fling the door open wide.

This whole thing had been a huge nightmare, like a sappy B-movie plot: family loses son tragically, family loses their beans, family stalks and abducts some poor kid who bears a resemblance to their long lost, family keeps him as their pet until the kid forgets who he used to be. Wasn't that an old _Little House_ episode? He was sure Macy'd watched that one recently on WTBS.

But he needed to keep his cool, needed to play along, up to a point. He sure as heck wasn't going to show them any respect. He wanted to draw those lines and keep them drawn. He knew about Stockholm Syndrome. He wasn't going to fall for it. Besides, being nice to them would only feed their delusions.

"You wanna brush your teeth?" The Perv wiggled a toothbrush at him.

Will's lip tweaked toward his nose. "I'm not brushing my teeth with a ratty, used toothbrush. Whose is that?"

"It's Dean's."

"Then I really don't want to use it. Don't want his cooties on me. No way."

The Perv shook his head. "You're a real pain in the ass with authority when you're cornered, you know that? We're gonna have to address that when this is over, but for now, stow the 'tude, dude." He put the toothbrush in Will's free hand.

Will threw it on the floor. "Stow _that_ up your ass."

The Perv collared him, marched him from the bathroom, pushed him down on the bed. "Stay there and shut your trap. And mind the salt line"

And that was another thing. These freaks had salt spread everywhere, like, _everywhere_—all around the bed, in front of the door. He'd seen Pugsley go behind the drapes with a bag of it earlier, so he must've dumped a bunch there, too.

Will sneered at The Perv, deliberately dragged his foot through the salt line, breaking it.

"Do it again, and I'm cuffing your legs. I don't have to be this generous. I'll carry you out'a here hogtied, gagged and stuffed into a duffel if I have to. It's no sweat off my back. This is your last warning, kid."

Will's stomach fluttered with fear. The man alternated between father-like irritation and predatory anger on a hairpin. Will knew he was pushing his luck, but something in him, something deep down wouldn't let him show his fear, wouldn't give the man that satisfaction. Saying nothing, he drew his legs up, hugged them to him, forced the guy to accommodate the move. The Perv's arm dangled at what had to be an uncomfortable angle. Good.

The Perv checked his watch. "It's after 12:00. We need to move. I want you to eat something. I don't care if it's just a little. I know you must be hungry."

The man passed him a lukewarm burger, and truth to tell, Will was famished. Last thing he had were the brownies his mom had given him yesterday, and they'd been cut into little-girl-sized pieces at that. The burger smelled like a dream, but no way would he give The Perv what he wanted.

"I ain't eatin' this thing with a ten-foot pole, pal." He dropped the uneaten burger on the bed, onions dangling from the wrapper. Damn, and he loved extra onions, too. Exactly what he would have ordered for himself.

The man hoovered in a lungful of pissed-off air, revving up to respond, but Puglsey interrupted them, pointing to the TV screen. "Uh…Dad…" He grabbed the remote and turned up the volume.

Hokey _action-news-now_ music played as they showed footage of Will's bike lying on its side, his helmet still hanging from the handlebar. Will's school picture from last year flashed on the screen while a woman-reporter provided the smarmy voiceover:

"Yesterday, fourteen year old William Darnell was a typical teenage boy, riding his bike home from his father's auto shop." The image faded out, overlapped by a panning camera that focused on the sign of his father's garage.

Will sat up straight, legs shaking with adrenaline and homesickness.

Voiceover-lady continued as the scene shifted, revealing the corner by Mr. Adler's butchers shop and Will's forlorn bicycle lying there with crime-scene tape fluttering in the wind around it. "But all that changed in the blink of an eye right here on this corner. There was a scuffle. There was a scream for help. A dark four-door sedan, speeding away even as help arrived—and now, William Darnell is a missing child—leaving his family…his entire community…_in crisis_."

Next, the reporter-lady stood next to Mr. Adler, baldhead, marshmallow apron and all, volleying her microphone between them as she questioned the old man.

Mr. Adler nervously stared straight at the camera when he answered. "I heard poor Will shout. He rides by my shop most every day, it seems. Good kid. Hard working. Honest. Never raises a ruckus. Did yard work for me to earn money to buy that bike of his. That thing's his pride an' joy. Such a tragedy. We're praying for you, Will"

"And you saw the car?"

"Sure did, Barbara!" Mr. Adler said, his voice upbeat, enjoying the reporter's attention. "It was an older sedan, black, like something from the late 60's or early 70's, maybe. Now, I don't know much about cars a'course, but Will's daddy works on 'em for his living. He showed me some pictures last night when the police took my statement."

The scene cut away again with more dramatic music and another voiceover. "The car is believed to be a black, classic era Chevy Impala…" They showed a 1969 Chevy Impala.

"Wrong year, y'dummies!" Will shouted at the TV.

"And police are now investigating all possible leads on the car's whereabouts."

The Perv sprang to his feet, began ferreting around, collecting whatever he could within arm's reach. Pugsley also ran about, bagging things up, tossing duffels toward the door. Will remained planted in front of the TV while chaos erupted around him.

"Authorities are asking anyone who may have information on this crime, anyone who may have seen the car or its driver to call the Albuquerque Police Department or the FBI."

"The FBI?" Will blinked, amazed. "Holy crap!"

The glamorous reporter strolled down the street where Will had been abducted, talking into her microphone, "Less than an hour ago, the Darnell Family held an impromptu press conference, personally reaching out to William's abductors, pleading for his safe return."

The scene changed, revealing Will's front doorstep. His mom and dad, Macy, Granny and Grampy, even Aunt Becky all the way from Clovis, everyone huddled there, subdued, like the world had come to an end. Will noticed Mr. Adler standing amongst the police officers, dignitaries and other suits, his meaty hand clapped to his cheek in consternation. True to form, Macy had her face plastered to her mom's skirt, peeking every now and again, eyes and nose red and puffy from crying.

Will stood, walked as close to the screen as he could with The Perv bustling around him. "Aw Mace, you spaz. Always afraid of strangers, even now."

His dad stood tall, flanked by microphones and the constant flash and whirr of cameras. He looked thin and pale, like he hadn't eaten or slept. He cleared his throat, checked his notes. "Cheryl and I want to address the people who have Will." He drew a breath, took another beat to swallow and gather himself. His mom white knuckled his hand, tugging on it in support. He continued reading, glancing up periodically. "Our son Will is a great kid; though, I'm sure you know that by now, having spent a day with him. He loves cars, bicycles, and music—spending time with his little sister. Last year Will led his school's track team, The Panthers, all the way to the State Finals. Will has a family and friends who love him dearly and miss him more than words can say, people who are praying with everything they have that, somewhere deep down within your soul, you recognize your mistake and find the courage to rectify it." God love the old man, but no way did he write that. This had his mom's touch all over it. "He's just a kid, a frightened, homesick kid, and he's looking to you for help. So, be a hero and help him, please. Help him by doing the right thing. We're begging you, please, please return Will to us. Please bring Will home."

Once his dad had finished, the reporter-lady stuffed her microphone under his mother's tear-streaked face. "What about you, Mrs. Darnell?"

Will catcalled the reporter despite The Perv jerking his arm, trying to hand off items to his son while they packed. "Leave her alone, you pushy bitch. Can't you see she's upset?"

"Mrs. Darnell? What do you want to say to Will's abductors?"

At that, his mom's head snapped up, her face hard, resolved. "I don't have anything to say to his abductors, but I do have something to say to Will."

"What, Mrs. Darnell? What do you want Will to know right now? What comfort can you offer your frightened boy?"

"Oh, shut up you idiot," Will yelled at the reporter.

His mom's voice quavered and his dad squeezed her shoulder, steadying her. "Will, honey. It's Mommy. I want you to know we're doing everything we can to get you home. Don't worry about your bike. The police are going to bring it home, and it'll be right here waiting. It'll be waiting for you, baby. You stay strong and brave, and we're going to bring you home. Just know that. Okay, Monkey? Mommy and Daddy and Macy, we love you so much and we miss you so much and we're going to get you back." Her face crumbled and his dad gathered her in his arms, resting his weary chin on her head. Will had never seen them so broken, and that broke him. His mom turned to the camera again, her face desperate. "Please don't hurt my baby." Tears flowed and she wheezed out the words. "Oh, God, please don't hurt him." His dad curled her face into his shirt and the camera mercifully cut away to the reporter.

"There you have it. This is Barbara Mason reporting for KRQE News 13."

Will glared at The Perv who stood next to him. The man's glacial eyes showed no emotion, except perhaps a tinge of suspicion and scorn as he switched off the TV. And it was that cruel act, that flippant dismissal of his parents' agony, ignoring their plea for mercy, erasing them with a flick of the off-button that finally snapped Will's resolve.

His poise evaporated. Tears tracked down his face, and he pointed to the blank TV, aching for his family but powerless to help them. "Still think they're in on it? You think that's fake?" He turned his face away because he couldn't suck his grief back, couldn't stop his stupid tears from spilling everywhere. And he hated—truly hated—that this man…this _thing_…saw him cry. But like his mom, he couldn't hold back. After trying so hard to be brave, he full-on lost it. Bracing his free hand against his knee, he folded over, convulsing with dry-heaving sobs.

That must have had some impact on The Perv, because his stance gentled. "It's gonna be all right." He said it soft…like he actually gave a crap. "I know you don't believe that, now…but it's true."

It took a moment for Will to respond, because fear and sorrow choked the words right out of his throat. He found them at last, though, "You're a monster. This may all be some big game to you, but you're putting my family through hell, and they're never gonna be the same again. Because of you. You're a monster, you perv! You don't get to play with their lives like that, do whatever you want just because you can! And I'll make sure you pay for this. So help me, God. I'm gonna make you pay."

After that, a sticky silence descended, except that creepy Pugsley-kid who stood by the door amidst a sea of duffel bags, plump tears wobbling in his eyes, snuffling like his dog just died.

**i**

They'd been on the road more than three hours, passing small-dot town after small-dot town. Nearing Flagstaff, Sam tried not to eyeball Dean too much, since his brother yelled at him whenever he caught him doing it. But he couldn't help sneaking a glimpse here and there, checking on him where he sat in the front seat, as far away from their dad as he could get. His head rested against the window, locked inside himself. He had to be uncomfortable with his arms cuffed behind him, his legs also cuffed together, no way to spread out and relax.

Sam hated every horrible minute of this fiasco, hated that Dean sat there, bound hand and foot, but they had to keep him in the car. They couldn't take the chance of Dean trying to get away. When they'd stopped for gas and supplies, Sam had been the one to pump the gas and haul food and several jugs of water into the car by himself while John kept Dean under control. Sam had no clue where they were going, but his dad had made sure they had provisions for at least a week.

After Dean's breakdown back at the motel, he hadn't cried again, which was a blessing. Sam couldn't have endured another second of that, couldn't bear the pain of witnessing his brother's raw anguish. Dean hadn't spoken much, either, but when he did he'd been rude and obnoxious. Sam'd observed _that_ side of Dean before, his bravado, that massive chip on his shoulder. He'd seen it several times, pointed at different people: school officials, social workers, doctors and ministers, anyone who ever got in the way of the internal workings of this family. Whenever Dean felt pinned, whenever he felt terrified deep inside, he'd whip out a smug, nonchalant exterior to hide behind. Sam saw it now, but for the first time ever, all of it, every caustic word and sneer, was pointed directly at Sam and his dad.

On one level it hurt to know Dean hated him, but on a whole other level it hurt far more to know that Dean, cuffed and leaning against the window, idly blowing breath steam, was scared out of his mind with nothing to pillow his pain. He wanted to give his brother a hug, wanted to tell him how much he meant to them, how much they'd missed him, how much everything his _fake_ parents were going through now were mere shadows compared to what he and his dad had experienced the past three months. Sam wanted to tell him how much he admired him, how much he loved him, but this Dean would only throw it back in his face. Heck, even a full-powered-Dean…_his_ Dean…would laugh off such declarations. But this Dean, now…this Dean would eat Sam alive for them. So he said nothing, nothing at all.

Dean sighed, twitched his nose. "Stinks like ass in here."

John stretched his neck, coming out of his thoughts. Sam hoped they were less gloomy than his own had been. Adjusting his bandaged hand on the wheel his dad canted his head. "Yeah, an upset stomach full of chocolate'll do that to a car."

Dean shook his head, focused on the passing landscape, avoiding John. "You don't deserve her. She should be with someone who takes care of her."

"Ah," John indulged in a rare smile, "so you're at least still friends with the car, eh?"

His brother shrugged. "Not her fault she's owned by an asshole." John snorted at that. Dean craned his neck at the man. "She should belong to someone who knows what in the hell a piston slap is—someone who appreciates her."

"First off, I'm well aware what a piston slap is, just so you know. And as for the car needing someone to take care of her…? Well, she does. She has you. You take real good care of her. You always have."

Dean huffed in contempt, shaking him off, staring out the window. "Don't start that crap again. I ain't your kid. I'll never be your kid."

Silence descended. Dean's irises stuttered and flickered as the outskirts of Flagstaff flew past. While the exits rolled by, Dean's muscles tightened, and Sam saw his feet tap-tap-tapping the floorboard, his leg jouncing with nervous energy.

As they snaked their way through the last few exits of Flagstaff, Dean doubled over without warning. With a cry, his whole body seized and he slammed against the seat, gasping. "What the…?" His eyes snapped shut, like he was having a stroke or something. "Ahhh! Ugh!"

Sam leapt up, put his hands on Dean's shoulders. "Dean? Dean! What is it?"

His dad's arm flew out to steady the teen, but he didn't pull over or slow the car.

Dean peered about, bewildered, like he was seeing everything for the first time. His neck craned this way and that, and he tugged his arms and legs as if only just now noticing the restraints. "What's going…? What's going on! Dad? Sam? Where am I?"

"Dean?" Sam hinged his torso over the seat. "Dean?"

"Yeah, Sam…it's me! What's…what's happening? Dad—Dad…stop the car! I remember! Pull over!"

Sam reeled on his Dad, hoping for validation. "Dad?"

His dad kept his focus on the road, took a quick sniff in and cocked his head. "Remember everything do ya, huh? So, what's your name?"

"What do you mean _what's my name?_ Dad, you know what my name is. It's Dean. Dean Winchester. What's going on? You guys playing a joke on me or something?"

Sam's stomach flopped with excitement. "Dad?"

Unimpressed, his dad sucked his teeth. "When's your birthday?"

"It's…it's January 24th, 1979. My mom's name is Mary. And this is Sam. C'mon Dad…stop the car. What's with the cuffs?"

Sam bit his thumbnail. His dad might be unconvinced, but Sam couldn't help but dare to hope. He so, so wanted it to be true. He glommed onto the flimsy tether with all his might.

"Uh huh," John said dryly. "What's your favorite rock band?"

Dean's eyes shifted from side to side then down. "What a question, Dad…it's Metallica, of course."

Sam hit his dad's shoulder. "It's him!"

Dean winced. "Dad, I don't understand any of this, and I feel—" He cried out in pain again, his shoulders straining, fighting the handcuffs. "Ahhh! You better pull over."

"Dad, he said Metallica!" Worry and joy warred, making Sam dizzy.

His Dad rolled his eyes at him. "Look at his shirt, Sam." Sam noticed the Metallica logo.

Oh.

"Besides, Metallica is only _one _of his favorite bands. I can think of a few more he'd put before them, can't you?"

Oh.

"Dad? Why is everything so hazy? My head, Dad. Oh man, my head! Please, pull over!"

John smacked his lips. "Last question, and then I'll stop the car. How do you take down a skinwalker?"

Dean ceased writhing, his body swaying, making little adjustments. "Pffph, you know what takes out a skinwalker, Dad. Why are you asking me?"

"M'asking to ask. How do you kill a skinwalker?"

"You…shoot it." It sounded suspiciously like a question.

"With…?"

"Uh…um…a big ass gun?"

Sam's heart sank into his toes.

John chuckled humorlessly. "Better leave the thespian routine to Sam, over there. You're a terrible actor, kid."

Dean's body slumped, but he treated each of them to a full-frontal, self-satisfied smirk. "Can't blame a kid for trying." He sighed, paused a moment, then perky, "I have to go to the bathroom."

John released a haggard groan. "You don't say." He swerved the car into the fast lane, increasing his speed through the last of the suburbs, leaving Flagstaff in their rearview mirror.

"What? You gonna make me piss myself? What kind of sadistic nutjob are you?"

"Sam, pass Dean the mayo jar."

"The _what_? Oh you've got to be kidding me!"

"Nope. Might have to get creative because of the handcuffs, but we'll get 'er done."

Another lull, then a whine, "But I have to go #2."

"That's not what you just said."

"It came on suddenly. This could be bad, Mister. I'm about to chunk in my pants!"

"Fine, shit yourself then," John snapped.

Dean's mouth fell open.

John counted to ten. "We'll be at our destination in another hour. We'll deal with the mess when we get there. Until then, keep your cake hole shut. You're being a royal pain in my ass, and I'm sick of your lip."

Dean made no answer, but he flounced his head and grunted, the equivalent of: _Good! My work here is done!_

A half-hour out of Flagstaff, about twenty country-bumpkin miles from anywhere, John turned the car onto a rickety dirt road, eastbound. As soon as Dean realized they were heading into open desert, he tensed, his mask cracking.

The mood of John's voice softened. "Relax. I told you, I'm not gonna hurt you. I promise, okay? Hey…" he put his hand on Dean's shoulder until the boy met his eye. "You have my word. You're okay, son."

Dean jack-knifed himself against the door, flying out of reach of the man's hand. "I told you not to call me that! And keep your damn pervy paws off'a me!" Dean released a frustrated, bellow from deep inside his diaphragm. It came out a raw croak because of his sore throat. Unsatisfied and unable to release his tension, he lifted his tethered feet and slammed them against the glove compartment.

"Hey!" John twisted his fist in Dean's shirt, shook him. "Now, that's enough!"

Dean swallowed and collapsed into the seat, mask in place, defenses secure. Shutting out Sam and John, he tucked his head into the window, nudged it, "Sorry Baby," he murmured to the car, "I didn't mean to, but your owner's an asshole."

Sam couldn't help but smile when he overheard the private conversation. Like his dad had said—Dean was in there, just begging to bust free.

As they sped deep into the desert, the grill of the Impala muscled through clouds of dust, splitting and twisting them into coiled tendrils that followed in her wake. With both the car and the afternoon sun barreling toward the stark horizon, turquoise sky above, Sam couldn't help but ask, "Dad, where are we going?"

John glanced at Sam through the rearview mirror then back to the road. "Off the grid. Way, _way_ the hell off the grid."

_**TBC**_


	4. Isolated Pawn

**A/N: Assorted Pai language vocabulary is listed at the end of the chapter.**

**A/N: Also, thank you to every person who has taken the time to comment on this story…especially to "guest" and "Julefor" who I could not thank individually. Each and every comment is precious to me. Thanks a million.**

_**J'adoube**_

**Chapter Four: Isolated Pawn**

After zigzagging over three dirt roads, each one progressively more rustic and weather-beaten than the last, the Impala came to a crunchy stop at the end of a red dirt road as the first stars popped through the evening sky.

Sam opened the car door and emerged like a meerkat rising from the Serengeti. "Dad, what is this place?" Between the nebulous dust clotting the air and the onset of twilight, the boy couldn't make out why they'd stopped in the middle of the desert. He coughed and wafted his hand to help improve his view.

"It's home for the next couple of days." John stepped from the car, while Dean, still surly and uncooperative in the front seat, leaned forward, squinting through the filmy windshield. His dad motioned toward an outcropping of Kaibab limestone in front of them. "The hooch is right there."

As the dust settled around the Impala, a crude but sturdy cabin came into view. With the desert tones used in its construction, the shack melded into the strata of the sedimentary rock-wall behind it. From a few hundred feet away, you wouldn't know the shack was there at all.

"Get the lead out, Sam. Start hauling in gear. Night's coming on and we need to get settled. All the water but one jug goes. I'll bring the kid."

"Uh, okay." Sam grabbed a couple of five-gallon water containers and labored toward the door. The buckled, peeling earth around the cabin cracked like thin clay under his laden feet.

Reaching the cabin, Sam noted hunter's protection symbols etched into the doorframe. An iron rod had been bolted across the threshold and an inch beyond that, a piece of PVC pipe had been halved length-wise, cleverly filled with salt and inlaid into the floor like a trough, creating a semi-permanent salt line.

Once inside, Sam set down the water jugs and peered around him. It was too dark to make out much, but he did see a single bed, an old, wooden table, some military footlockers and several ammo canisters. All told the cabin was about the size of a small motel room, minus the bathroom—that was nowhere to be seen, nor a kitchen, nor running water, nor electricity. Not much different than squatting. Sam groaned at the prospect and continued taking stock. One of the two windows had a small air conditioner built into it. It hadn't been used for a while, though, that was for sure. Sam fanned his face, swiping at the sweat beading on his forehead.

Walking to the table, Sam saw a small, oil lamp sitting there with a box of matches next to it. He removed the chimney, pinched the wick and lit it. As he did so, he heard Dean and his Dad struggling in the car.

"Getcher freaky hands off'a me, you giant, smelly perv!" Sam heard one more squawk from Dean, then silence.

A few seconds later the car door slammed and heavy boots stomped across the crusty dirt around the cabin. Sam stepped back to accommodate his father's silhouette as the man entered with the snorting, thrashing teen slung over his shoulder. A line of silvery duct tape covered Dean's mouth and jaw, and the boy's eyes sparked with outrage and contempt in the lamplight.

Depositing Dean onto the bed with little tenderness, John bellowed, "Stay!"

Dean woofed and snorted a litany of mumbled invectives at the man, but his dad merely patted the tape around his mouth, making sure it remained in place. "I said, stay," he reiterated and stood, stretching his back with a satisfied nod.

Sam adjusted the wick, giving them more light and checked out the rest of the room. "What is this place, Dad?" The boy noticed the remnants of an old murder-board, scraps of torn paper and shorn corners of clippings remained pinned to the wall. A few forlorn pieces of yarn hung like cobwebs. "You do that?"

John sighed at Dean who had risen from the bed and was making his slow, waddling way toward the open door. Splaying his hand on Dean's head he pushed him back onto the bed and rolled his eyes. "I said stay, and I meant it!"

"Irllhachuu!" Dean tried to kick him with his bound feet, but his dad was too fast.

John shut the door, locked it, and then stood beside Sam, looking at the wall. "Not my hunt. Martin and Travis were here not long ago." He absently levered a small tack up and then pushed it back down. "They were after a werecat, I think. At least that's what I heard through the grapevine. Haven't seen either of them to get the inside story, yet." He went to one of the old footlockers, flipped it open and rummaged around, searching for something. "Bobby, Travis, Martin and I, a couple other guys built this about five years ago."

"Wow, this is awesome, Dad. I like the built-in salt lines." Sam stomped on the wood floor, ran his hands over the unpainted drywall. Craning his neck, he realized the thatch roof was made from the twisted scrub found everywhere in the desert.

Pulling out a couple of long iron chains from the footlocker, John agreed. "Yep. We build salt lines into the windowsills, too. We hauled in the supplies, used what materials we could find around the area." He pointed to the roof. "This is skinwalker and chupacabra country. We needed a home base. It has a small generator, some provisions, ammo, the works. Also makes a secure place to lay low when need calls."

"Mrrphspirmlfph!" Dean's glance snapped around the room. He nudged his chin toward some spider webs hanging like gauze in the corner.

"Yeah, it could use a dusting, but it'll serve our needs for now." John strode to the gagged boy, dragging the thick chains behind him. He attached each chain to two of the many iron hooks that'd been fastened to the wall to store firearms.

Dean shimmied away from John and huddled in the corner of the bed.

John bent in to inspect the handcuffs. "We're gonna have to find a better rig than this for you. Sorry, kiddo." Dean's eyes raked over him, frightened and mad as hell. Unlocking the handcuffs, John readjusted them. He cuffed one of Dean's wrists and ankles to the chains that he'd attached to the iron hooks on the wall. This bought him more range of motion while boxing him into a six-foot diameter _cell_, which included the bed.

Sam hated seeing Dean penned like that, but he knew there would be no arguing with his dad. Besides, Sam knew if Dean were given any slack, he'd run away as soon as he could, even if it meant dying of thirst on the open desert. So, he said nothing. He swung around, tried to busy himself, attempting to take his mind off of it.

Looking out the window, he asked, "How did you guys build this with no one knowing? Won't other people find it?"

"Well, we're about 30 klicks from anywhere. Flagstaff is southeast. We're at the ass-end of the Havasupai Reservation. This is their land. But they know we're here. I did some work with them five years ago and their medicine man gave me permission to build here. He knows what we do. But the Havasupai people don't live this far south. They stay in the canyons to the north of us. This is pure, untamed desert out here. Loaded with supplies, you boys should be okay alone for a few days."

"Alone?" Sam said and Dean mumbled the equivalent at the same time.

"Dad, why? Where are you going?"

"I have to go see a friend, get some help with this."

"Who, dad? Why can't we go with you?"

"Because it's a ten-mile hike to get to him. He lives in the canyon north of here, in a town so remote they still send out their mail via pack-mule."

"I don't understand, Dad. We can hike that easy, and if it's so remote, won't it be the perfect spot to hide?"

"Yes, well, isolated or not, it's also a tourist destination. The Havasu Canyon sits next door to the western edge of the Grand Canyon, so you have a lot of tourist overflow into the reservation. It's not secure. I can't take the risk of anyone making us. I'm sorry. You two'll be fine here. No one comes out this way. It's not a tourist-friendly area, so you're staying here. There's enough water, food and fuel to keep you going for a week, but I should only be gone a day—two at most. I hope by then I'll have this mess sorted out."

John strode around the hut, pointing out various amenities. "You have food, water. Propane tank and generator are around back. Leave them alone. You've got over 50 gallons of fuel, Freon for the air conditioner, but don't overuse it. Keep it low, just enough it to take the edge off the heat. You shouldn't need it at night at all. We'll replenish everything before we go, once Dean's better…"

At that, Dean snorted under his gag but John paid no attention. "We haven't had time to rig a better lighting system, but trust me, the generator will be needed solely for the AC, anyway. There's the oil lamp." He pointed to the table. "Be careful with it. Stay in the hooch, no going outdoors unless it's to use the can. And, sorry, but you brother's gonna have to make due with a bucket. He doesn't come off those chains until I get back."

Dean's eyes bugged and the vein in his forehead throbbed as he fought against the gag and chains.

"Sorry, kiddo. It's just for a couple of days at most, then all of this will be over." He tried to approach Dean, maybe give him a comforting pat, but the kid flinched away from him. John pinched the bridge of his nose and gave up with a tired groan. He moved toward Sam, bent down to him. "This is a lot of responsibility, sport. I know I can count on you to look after things for me, right?"

Sam's chin quivered, but he gave his father a firm nod. "Yeah, Dad. I'm on it. I got it."

"Good man." He mussed his son's hair. "Now, help me get the rest of the stuff in, then I need to leave. It's almost dark, and I have a long drive and an even longer hike ahead of me."

**i**

"Don't pull, it'll hurt worse. Here, lemme me just…gently…" Sam pressed his tongue against his upper lip as he peeled the duct tape away from Dean's mouth.

"Puhhh," Dean spit out air, working his jaw, licking his lips.

"Sorry about that. Let me get this, now…" Sam toweled the blood away from Dean's upper lip. His dad shouldn't have taped his raw skin like that, and it pissed Sam off to no end. Sometimes his dad just didn't think.

"Get your hands off'a me." The iron chains rattled as Dean snatched the towel from Sam and daubed his lip, examining the bloody smudges on the cloth. "Ah, you freaks. And he promised he wasn't gonna hurt me. Liar!"

"Sorry D—Will. Sorry. He wasn't trying to hurt you. Calm down."

"Calm down? Calm down! How would YOU feel if someone told you everything you knew, everyone you loved wasn't real, huh? How'd you feel if someone kidnapped you, _drugged_ you and tied you up? Huh? Could you calm down? It's all crazy. You're both crazy, and I ain't listenin' to another thing you say. Go away, Pugsley." He rolled over, face to the wall.

"I'd feel the same way, I guess." Sam lingered a moment, hovering, but Dean refused to say or do anything other than brood and smolder to himself. Sighing, Sam clicked his tongue, decided to leave him alone. He went about getting them settled in, organizing the duffels, unpacking the food stores: peanut butter and bread, trail mix and granola bars. He'd also bought as much _Dean-food_ as he could carry: Funyuns, assorted Hostess fruit pies, beef jerky, pepperoni sticks and candy bars. He'd also bought his brother a couple of car magazines, thought it might help him pass the time.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Dean peek his way, staring at the food. The teen instinctively moved to the foot of the bed when he saw the pepperoni. Sam watched him through his peripheral vision, but Dean must have noticed because he canted his head and crabbed away, huddling back into the crook of the wall.

Sam bit his lip, picked up a couple of plump pepperoni sticks and made his way to the bed. Nudging onto the edge, he held one out for him. "Have it."

Dean regarded him with dead eyes. "Get bent, Pugsley. I ain't hungry."

"Well, I know that's a lie." Sam fingered the plastic wrap, peeling it, letting the savory scent fill the air between them. "I know you love these." He pivoted toward his brother, posturing, big goofy smile on his face, doing his best Dean impersonation. "_C'mon, it's good for you, Sammy! I mean, it says so right on the package—made with 100% certified, beef-like products!_"

"What the hell are you goin' on about, you freak?"

Sam's face fell. He shrugged. "My brother. He always says stuff like that. Here, c'mon…take it. It's good, see?" Sam bit into his. He thought it tasted like shoe leather, but he knew Dean loved it, so he raised his brows in feigned delight. "Mmmm! It's good, Will."

Dean blinked when Sam called him _Will_. He didn't accept the food, but he softened. "Thanks for that."

"For what?" Sam wiggled the beef stick. "You haven't taken it yet."

"For, you know, calling me by my name—not starting in with that _you-are-my-brother_ crap."

Sam took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. "Yeah, well…let's not worry about all that stuff. Let's just get through the night. It'll go a lot better if you eat and drink something. Please?" He let his eyes turn moist and deep. And this time it wasn't exactly a put-on, it honestly did hurt him that Dean wouldn't eat despite being so hungry.

Dean's forehead creased. Snuffing in, he swallowed the saliva overflow in his mouth and grabbed the pepperoni as casually as he could. But Sam noticed his hand trembling in hungry anticipation as he unwrapped the meat. His brother bit into it, swallowed cautiously, testing his sore throat. It must have passed the test, because he took another bite, eyelashes fluttering, low growl in his throat before he wolfed the rest in a matter of seconds. It didn't appear he'd noticed his own famished reaction until after he'd eaten the whole thing.

He looked at Sam, startled…then sour. "Quit it."

"Quit what?" Sam said, mystified.

"Quit watching me. Quit smiling at me like I'm a toddler who took his first dump in the crapper."

Dropping his head, Sam apologized, "Sorry." He got up, brought two more meat sticks and a plastic bag with him. Sitting, he dug into the bag, fumbling around for the right item. "I got you something else." He peeked into the bag. "Yeah, here it is, see? Surprise!" Sam held up a bottle of Crystal Pepsi.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Crystal Pepsi's for pussies, you know." Still, he reached for it. Wow, Dean must have been, really, _really_ thirsty.

Sam laughed. "Yeah, I know, but I was just testin' ya. It's good to know some things don't change. This one's mine. Here, this is yours." He pulled out a bottle of Mountain Dew.

"Whoa, now we're talkin'. Hello beautiful!" Dean greeted the bottle of soda. He twisted off the cap and drank long and deep. It so amazed Sam, seeing Dean be so…_Dean_…even if his brother didn't realize it himself.

"Here, eat this one, too. We got tons more." Sam handed Dean another long beef stick. His brother eyed it for a moment, fighting the urge to refuse, but hunger won out, and he took it, peeled back the wrapper.

Dean stretched out on the bed, shackled arm beneath his head, munching while he studied the thatch-scrub roof above him, surfing through his thoughts. "Wouldn't take more than a few huffs and puffs to blow this dump down."

Sam glanced up at the ceiling. "I bet it's sturdier than you think. I know my dad. He and his friends wouldn't build a crap place."

Dean shrugged, continued chewing. "If you say so. He's a jerk, a kidnapping, pervy jerk." Sam laughed. "What's so funny?"

Sam hesitated, then, "N—nothing. Well, it's just that you—I mean Dean, he's always on Dad's side about everything. He worships Dad, never has a bad word to say about him."

"Then I guess it's proof that I'm not Dean."

"I think it just means that Dad seems like a jerk from the outside, sometimes."

"Whatever." Dean elbowed himself up, cast his eyes about, noticing the jugs of water on the floor, the supplies—his backpack. "Hey, that's _my_ backpack!"

Looking over his shoulder, Sam popped the last of the pepperoni into his mouth. "Yeah, want it?" He ran and brought the pack to Dean. "Here."

Dean gripped it in his hands, brought it to his nose, smelling it. He cleared his throat and unzipped the pouch, fingering the items inside, a bunch of green army-men, a half-filled water bottle, a couple other things. He plucked out a girly bobby-pin with angel wings attached to it, spun it in his fingers, his eyes going soft and sad. He clenched the hairpin in his fist, seeing Sam watching him. "What? It's my sister's. It's Macy's."

Nervous, Sam didn't say anything, but he knew _Dean_ could handily pick his locks with it. In fact, Dean had been so skilled at lock-picking his dad relied on him to pick the locks wherever they went. Of the two of them, Dean was far and away the quickest. Dean had offered to show Sam how to do it, but he'd put him off, always telling him he had homework to do, anything to get out of it. Then all of _this_ happened. Now, Sam regretted never having learned. It would have given him quality time with his brother. Once they fixed this mess, he promised himself he'd beg Dean to show him how to pick locks.

Of course, this was _Will_, now though, not _Dean_, so Sam said nothing about the hairpin other than, "It's cute. You must love her a lot."

Dean shifted on the bed, clenched his jaw and dropped the hairpin into his backpack's front pouch, zipped it. Rubbing his sweaty palms on his jeans, he snapped, "She's my kid sister. What do you expect?" He scooched to the edge of the bed, leaning on his elbows, feet on the floor. "Sam…" Dean called him by his real name. "You know there's enough water and food. We could walk right out'a here. It'd be easy. 20-30k is nothing, man. We could get to the road and get someone to stop." He held up his handcuffs. "Unlock these and let's get out'a here. I know you don't like what your Dad's doing. I can see it in your face. Come on, man…let me go."

Sam shook his head, took a moment to organize his thoughts. "I couldn't unlock them even if I wanted to. Dad took the key with him. I can't pick them, you're the one who—I mean, I don't know how. I haven't learned yet. But even still, I can't let you go. I know you don't understand any of this. But Dad's not crazy. You _are_ Dean. You're my brother."

"No I'm _not_! C'mon, please just let me go!" He yanked the chains several times until he exhausted himself and planed into the wall, growling in his anger and frustration. "Please! I just want my family back, dammit!"

"So do I." Sam sighed. "So do I."

**i**

The soft edge of dawn had crept into the Havasu Canyon by the time John completed his slow, bleary descent. He'd driven for hours, forced to loop all the way to the neighboring Hualapai Nation to connect to Indian Rd 18 and double back to the trailhead. Then, traversing the Havasu Falls Trail in the middle of the night had cost him several more hours, as well as the last of his reserved strength.

He'd passed the forty-eight hour mark without sleep, and he clomped along the path, clumsy, stumbling on rocks he should have seen coming. Still, he walked onward, legs stiff and sore, weaving his way into the misty, verdant canyon.

Lush plant life sprung up around him, sprawling away from the Havasu Creek that wound through the canyon floor like a sapphire snake. Stopping to fill his water bottle, John doused his head, working to revive himself for the final leg of his journey.

"There you are. Don't drown, Johnny."

Hearing the familiar voice, John sprang up, dragged a pearly rope of water with him that arced over his head and lashed his back in a wet line. He ran his hand across his face, rubbed his eyes as the Havasupai man approached him on horseback, leading another horse behind him. John moved away from the water, holding up his hand in greeting.

"Chickapanagie? What the hell?"

"John Winchester, I dreamed you'd be arriving today. Thought I'd come meet you, make sure you didn't fall into the creek." Jumping off his horse, the medicine-man grasped John by the hand. "_Gam'yu, nya nuwa._" He lifted his palm to his mouth then pressed it over his heart. Opening his arms wide, he tugged John into a crushing bear hug.

John latched on, returning the fierce embrace. "_Gam'yu_, Chickapanagie. Goddamn it's good to see you. Fuck, things are bad right now. Real bad. I need your help. I _really_ need your help."

Chickapanagie nodded, his sundried face alight. "So I see and feel. Big movements in the Game." He swiped his hand through his gray hair, stood tall and sniffed the morning breeze. Turning to John, he quirked an eyebrow, "Well, you look like shit, Johnny. Come on, now that you've found me, you can fill me in as we ride. Then we can make plans to help your young white pawn."

"Young white what?"

Chickapanagie chuckled. "Oh Johnny, you haven't changed." He cocked his head at the hunter, considering. "But you need sleep. You're about to drop. The Game will wait a few hours while we smoke and talk. I'll help in whatever way I can."

"You're not making a lick a'sense."

"Yes I am. You're just too tired, too…_you_…to get it. C'mon, man, let me help you on the horse."

The hunter stared at him blankly, too numb to understand. The Havasupai man threaded his fingers into a makeshift stirrup, wiggling them playfully. "That's it, be a big boy, now, climb up on the horsy."

John pursed his lips bitchily. "You're hysterical. Move, old man, I got this." With a grunt, he clutched the reins and mounted the horse without Chickapanagie's help.

"Good for you, Johnny-boy." The older man looked him up and down. "But we must call you _Wobbles-in-the-Saddle_ from now on, though, I think. Now don't fall off." Chickapanagie mounted his own horse, eased alongside John, watching him with amused concern. "There now, let's hear this story of yours. Tell me what's happening and how The People can help."

**i**

Will rolled onto his stomach, the too soft mattress sucking him into its depths. His hands curled around his pillow, drawing it close and snuggling into its familiarity. A groggy, half-smile quirked his lips as he breathed deep, inhaling the scent of leather, sweat and whiskey—of family and home. His eyelashes fluttered open.

He lay there for some time, blinking and breathing but not thinking. And as his brain began to recognize the shapes and forms around him, his eyes went wide with horror and he pitched up on his elbows, pawing at The Perv's leather jacket he'd been cuddling.

"Huhghh!" Will flung the jacket off the bed with a gasp of disgust. He sat up, rubbing and pinching his lids until he saw blobs like photoflashes in front of his eyes. Once his vision cleared he realized he was still trapped in a nightmare. Noticing his backpack lying at the bottom of the mattress, Will drew it to him, smelling his sister and mom on it. He whimpered into the nylon, wishing with all his might he was home with them.

At that, Pugsley's head staggered up from the table with a snort, and he bobbled there a moment, blinking torpidly, puffy-eyed and unaware of the ridiculous imprint the book he'd fallen asleep against had made on his face.

"Aw crap." The boy noticed the lamp burning low, most of its oil having been wasted during the long night. Shielding the chimney with his palm, Pugsley blew it out, then smiled at Will. "Good morning."

Will made no return gesture. There was nothing good about this. He tangled his fists into his backpack, holding it close.

Pugsley nodded as though he'd known or guessed everything going through Will's mind. "Sorry. Didn't mean it that way." He wiped his cheeks and ran his fingers down the corners of his mouth, pinching his lips. Giving the room a muzzy once-over, he swallowed, whistled, "Whew, s'hot in here, already."

"Wow, you should get a job with the Weather Channel. You're a regular barometer." Will knew he was being unfair. After all, the kid was stuck here, too. But he couldn't help letting his anger get the best of him. He had to vent at someone, and Pugley was the only person within 20 miles.

Pugsley's glance slid to his hands, studying his fingers. "Yeah, I guess so, huh?" He heaved a sigh. Will didn't know what the kid was yammering about, doubted the kid knew either. It was just something to fill the awkward silence.

Climbing down from the chair, Pugsley stretched, made his way to the window. "Dad must've found his friend by now. One more day and we'll be able to get out'a here. But for today, we'll just hang. That sound good? Huh?" He craned his neck toward Will.

"Oh wow, fun." Will snapped, then winced, shifting on the bed, drawing up his legs. The two Mountain Dews he'd consumed the night before had made their way south and were urgently pleading for release.

Pugsley gave him a knowing nod. "Don't worry," he said, as if responding to Will's thoughts. "One sec, okay?" He rooted around, grabbed the bucket and a ratty roll of toilet paper. Bringing it over, he set it in front of Will. "I'm gonna go outside, make sure everything's secure. I'll let you be alone. I'll be back in a couple of minutes."

Without another word, the kid left, closing the door behind him. Will was grateful, but his humiliation ran deep when he had to both urinate and defecate in the bucket. He sniffled, his diaphragm hitching as he inched away from the bucket like it was filled with snakes. Noticing the discarded leather jacket a few feet away, he pinched it in his fingers and draped it over the bucket, trapping the odors inside. Will smiled. It wasn't much, but this small act of revenge provided him some measure of satisfaction.

When Pugsley returned, he noticed the covered bucket and arched his eyebrow. "Done?" was all he said.

Will gave him a panicked, jerky nod. "Don't' look inside." His chest hitched again, more snuffling. "Please don't look inside."

"I won't, I promise." Pugsley said, full of empathy. "I'll just dump it and run, okay?"

He wasn't gone but a matter of seconds, and when he returned he carried only the jacket with him. He must have left the bucket outside the door. Saying nothing about what had happened, Pugsley put his hands on his hips and began tidying the room. "It's really, really hot now. I'm gonna start the air conditioner, let it run low for a while. Cool things off." He rubbed a smudge of sweat off his neck. "You hungry? Thirsty?"

Yeah, he was, both in fact, but Will sure as hell wasn't going to go through pissing and crapping in a bucket a second time. He'd wait until The Perv came back to get them. He shooed the kid away. "No. Leave me alone."

"You should drink, you know. It's too hot. You'll make yourself sick."

"Thank you, Florence Nightingale. How's about you just let me go, instead. Give me a bottle of water and I'll be on my way."

"You know I can't do that."

Will crawled into his corner with an angry huff, fiddled with the zipper on his backpack. "Why? I'm not your dumbass brother. I keep telling you."

"But what if you are? Have you ever thought of that?"

"I'm not, though."

"Well…" Pugsley walked to the bed, sat down, "You asked me how it would feel if someone kidnapped me, and I said I'd feel like you. But let's just pretend for a minute. What would you do if suddenly one day Macy disappeared? She was right there one moment and then gone the next. Let's say you looked and looked and looked for months and then when you finally found her, she didn't know you, didn't care about you. What if none of your past together that _you_ remember so well meant anything to her, and she just wanted to get as far away from you as she could, even though you love her so much it kills you inside? How would you feel? What would you do? Wouldn't you try and convince her who she really was, even if she didn't want to know?"

Pugsley rose, snagged two bottles of water, then crawled back onto the bed, keeping his distance but still close enough that Will couldn't avoid him. Pugsley opened his bottle and drank his fill, then wiped his lips, offering the other to Will. Will shook him off, refusing.

"Well?" Pugsley prompted him.

"Well what? It'd suck. I'd try and talk some sense into her. But all you people have done is tie me up and shove me way the hell out in the boonies and spout a bunch'a nonsense about ghosts and goblins. It's insane. You don't know me, pal. You _think_ you do, but you don't. You don't know jack-all about who I am."

The kid stared at him for a few agonizing moments then, "You like cars and music."

"Nice try. They said that much on the news."

"Yeah, but they didn't say how you'll sit and read car magazines for hours, and I mean for, like, hours and hours, while listening to music. And your favorite music is whatever your dad likes, right?"

"Well, duh. Music of the 60's and 70's rocks. Anyone would like it."

Pugsley continued, "Okay, so some of this might not be one-hundred percent because you're—you're a little different this way. But I bet a lot of it still works because, well, because you're also mostly the same, too. So when you were young, you used to suck your thumb. Dad says you did it until you were, like six or seven years old. No one knows why. You just did. And then one day you stopped—out'a the blue, you just…stopped. You love your bacon extra, extra crispy. You love pie and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with the crusts cut off…even now. Every time you eat one, you still cut the crusts off. You love cheeseburgers with as much bacon as your parents will allow you to put on it. Your favorite cereal is Lucky Charms and you hate peas—I mean, you really hate them. You pick them out of anything that has 'em: pot-pies, stew, soups, doesn't matter, if there's a pea in your bowl, you pick 'em out. You call it _pea-patrol_, and you won't rest until every pea is gone. And only then will you eat."

Okay, now this was getting creepy. Will went to say something but the kid cut him off.

"You want to be a mechanic like your dad. Part of that is because you love cars, but part…part is because you know it'd make your dad proud of you. You love it because you love him and want to be close to him. You love your little sister, but you try not to show it too much—don't want the twerp thinking she can run all over you. You call her 'dork', 'princess', 'twerp', 'freakazoid' more often then you call her by her name. And when you do call her by her name, I bet you change it, make a nickname out of it that's close but not quite right, and I bet she hates it, too."

"Stop." Will sat up, getting uncomfortable now.

"When you go to the movies you don't throw popcorn at your little sister, you strategically place kernels in her hair and on her shoulders throughout the movie, making sure she doesn't notice, giggling to yourself. Then by the time the movie's over she's got a crown of popcorn, and you laugh like it's the funniest thing in the whole freakin' world. And the madder she gets about it, the funnier you think it is. You do this every single time you go to the movies. It's really annoying, by the way."

"I said stop! How do you know all that? You and your freaky dad been following me everywhere?"

"N—no," he hesitated, "no, I know it because I know you. You are Dean, even if you don't believe you are. Even if you don't remember."

Will shook his head, obstinate and scared. "I would remember if I didn't remember!"

"So much is the same," the kid went on, not allowing Will to shut him down. "It's hard to explain. You're you, all right, in all the ways that count the most, but you're different in some ways, too. I guess this must be you—this must _you_ if Mom hadn't died."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, I can't explain it. You're like…Dean with two parents and no hunting. You're…you're like—you're like Crystal Pepsi."

"Huh?"

"Yeah, just like Crystal Pepsi…it's Pepsi…but, you know…lighter. You're Dean-lite."

"You're such a dweeb."

Pugsley smiled. "It's the closest analogy as I can find."

"_Analogy_? Really? God, you must be one of them bookworm eggheads."

The kid shrugged. "What? I like words."

"What a dork." Will held out his hand for the water bottle, opened it, took the tiniest sip to wet his mouth, then handed it back. "If I was your brother, and I'm not saying I am, but if I was, I sure as hell would've made you cut your hair. The '70's are long gone, doof, you might want to leave the geek-do back where it belongs."

The Sam-kid laughed long and loud. "Yeah," he said, at last. "Like I said…Dean-lite."

They both fell silent, each lost in thought. Will turned to Pugs—Sam. "Okay, Sam. But we have to come to an agreement. I get it now. I do. You think I'm your brother and he and I have a lot in common. But I don't want you to call me that name, okay?"

"I—I'm sorry."

"I know you mean well and all. I also know you miss him, but it's not gonna help anything if we keep arguing about this anymore. I can't convince you I'm not him, and you're never gonna convince me that I am. So, could we just stop with all that? It really messes with my head. Please."

"Sorry, Will. I'm…I'm sorry. Yeah. Okay. I won't do that anymore. Let's talk about other stuff. Here, tell me about your family—tell me what it's like living and going to school in one place."

"What do you mean?"

"My—my family moves around a lot," he explained, "So, I was wondering what it was like to, you know, not have to do that. Tell me about it. What're they like, your parents?"

"It's great. They're great. They're strict as hell, yeah, but mostly they're great." Will snickered. "They like to think they're real grown-up and mature, but they can both get real silly. Embarrassing. There've been a couple of times when—" he paused, "—well, let's just say I got a hundred stories..."

**i**

Chickapanagie's jaw worked as he chewed on John's story, digesting it, wagging his head and snorting as John described Dean's sudden absence and subsequent reality-break.

"My friend, a powerful psychic, told me it's White Magic, not Black, doing this. I don't even know what the hell that means to be honest, but either way, I need your help. You're the strongest medicine man I know."

The Havasupai man's eyebrow shot up. "How many medicine men do you know? I hope its thousands, man. That'd be pretty cool."

"You know what I mean," John said. "I've never seen anyone hold a demon without a devil's trap. You did that. Kept it inside Tlootha's body, pushed it away so he could communicate with us, give us information on where the demon had hidden the children. I've never seen that done before or since—not by anyone."

Chickapanagie nodded. "Well, Tlootha's my son. I fought the demon for him. A father does what must be done to protect his own. And you're the one who got that thing out of him. I owe you my life for that. You did the exorcism." He shrugged. "Why the Pai language isn't good enough for a demon, I'll never know." He rolled his shoulders. "Had to be Latin." He said it with a hoity-toity huff. "Christian demons, man, I tell you. Snobs. Every one of them."

John smiled, but his mirth soon evaporated. He shifted in the saddle. "Probably shouldn't have built that church on the reservation. That's where it came through."

"Maybe," Chickapanagie agreed, "but we didn't build it. Spanish missionaries forced that on us a hundred and fifty years ago. Still, I learned something from the whole experience."

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

Chickapanagie grinned. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis statanica potestas…"

"Well look at you…"

"I'll be ready next time." Chickapanagie sat high in his saddle.

John quieted, then, "So, can you help him? Can you help my son?"

The sun crawled down the western wall of the canyon, flooding the chiseled travertine terraces with peach-colored sunshine. Chickapanagie smiled up at the sight.

"Did I ever tell you the Havasupai legend of Tochopa and Hokomata?"

"Um…no," John said impatiently. "Is this going somewhere?"

"Do I ever speak without reason, Johnny?"

The hunter took a deep breath, gripped the reins tighter. "No."

"Good, then shut up, man." Chickapanagie grinned and pointed to the canyon walls. "The Great Father had two sons, Tochopa and Hokomata. Twin gods. One day Tochopa, the god of Light began playing a game of strategy against his brother, Hokomata, the god of Darkness. When things did not go well for Hokomata, he raged and decided he would drown the world. Tochopa swore an oath to stop him. They waged war against one another, breaking the land around them. That war created the canyons. Both the war and the Game have been going on ever since, and like the Havasupai against the Apache—their animosity runs deep. They are brothers who war without end."

The old Havasupai man made a large gesture, taking in the canyon around him. "The Game goes on about us all the time. Many light and dark spirits have joined in, aiding the brothers, siding with whomever they feel the most kinship. Most humans do not know the Game exists. They go about their lives, blaming the wind or the shifting earth when one or another brother makes a move. Some of us know the Game goes on. We see it. We strive to prevent people from getting hurt by the shifts in the Game, but we ourselves do not take sides. It is not our war, after all. The brothers must settle this between themselves. I was named after my great grandfather, the mighty hunter Chickapanagie. But," he winked at John, "he hunted many things, not just elk and deer. Many have fought against the spirits who wage war when they forget to care about the humans who get caught in their crossfire."

He sighed. "And sometimes humans don't only get caught in the crossfire, they become tools, they get used as pieces in the Game by spirits and gods, forcing them to carry out their will." He looked at John expectantly. "Do you understand?"

John blinked. "Not a fuckin' clue, chief. Get to your point."

"Just a medicine man, here, Johnny." Chickapanagie joked, his eyes rolling heavenward. "Your son, small but mighty, is being used in the Game. Tochopa's magic surrounds him, making him believe he is who he is not. Those using Tochopa's power do not know—do not care—about the inconvenience this causes him or his family. These doers are vigilantes. They care for nothing but the outcome. They care for nothing but the Game."

"I don't give a shit about any of that. I just want my son. Can you fix it? Can you remove the magic?"

"Remember when my son, Tlootha, was taken by the demon? Remember how we trapped and expelled it?"

"How could I ever forget?"

"We must do much the same thing here. The entity controlling your son is not within his body, but we must dispel the power corrupting him, much like blowing sand off slate to reveal the true color of the rock beneath."

John stretched in his saddle, washed his face with his hand as they entered Supai. The village was waking up, a few hikers passed them by on their trek to the falls. Hearing the whirl of a helicopter, John looked above him as it landed just a thousand feet from them.

"You serious? You people don't have cars or roads or electricity, but you have a fuckin' helicopter?"

Chickapanagie laughed. "Hey, tourists want what they want—or don't want. And some of them don't want a ten-mile hike. Tlootha got his pilot's license a few years ago. The People have to eat more than peaches, you know. The charter business helps pay for our school.

John raised his eyebrows. "All righty, then." He shook off the thought. "So, can we do this now—help Dean? What'll it take?"

"We must first prepare our souls as well as our bodies for the fight, Johnny. First things first." He pointed ahead of him to a small stone church with a ceremonial, coned wickiup in front.

As they approached, John noticed a woman standing outside the wickiup, smiling and waving to them. She wore western garb, jeans and a cotton t-shirt. Yet, strapped to her back was a very traditional cradleboard with a small, brown-haired head peeking out the top.

She called to him. "John Winchester! _Gam'yu_!"

The hunter rubbed his eyes, squinting. Recognizing her, he jumped off his horse and greeted her warmly. "Yunosi!"

She leaned in for a warm hug. "Chickapanagie told us you were coming today." She bowed to the shaman. "Refreshment is ready. Tlootha has a few more flights today. He will be back later to help prepare for the Sweat Ceremony."

Smiling, John pointed to the baby. "That's new. You and Tlootha have been busy, huh?"

Yunosi laughed. "Very busy. This is Chickapanagie's second grandson since you visited."

The hunter released the hug, but still held her arm. "How's Tlootha?"

Her young face hinted at the devastation of five years ago, but her smile wiped the pain away. "He's good, John. He's strong and well. We'll never forget what you did for us. He'll be so happy to see you." She turned to Chickapanagie. "Come inside, _Dála_. Drink and smoke are ready for you."

The three entered the wickiup and sat on the dirt floor. Chickapanagie picked up a long pipe, tapping the dried peyote and tobacco mixture into the bowl.

"Whoa! What are you doing, chief? We need to help Dean."

"We are. We must prepare ourselves for the journey ahead. One does not talk to The Great Father sober. He will not listen. But if you'd rather, you can have some cleansing tea for now."

He passed a steaming clay cup to John. "What's in it?"

"Water, herbs…it won't get you high, man. Drink."

John swirled the cup, giving it a suspicious sniff and a small test-sip. It tasted like warm rain with a vague, mossy aftertaste. "Fine, but I left my kids in that cabin at the southern tip of the reservation. I can't leave them alone for long."

"Do not worry, Johnny." Chickapanagie settled, lit his pipe and took a long toke. "I am not a seer of the future, but I smell, taste, and feel that the young pawns are well. They are…" he closed his eyes, breathing deep. "They are reacquainting. Their souls are speaking to one another again, unwedging the distance between them. I hear laughter on the wind."

John took a few gulps of the wet tea, placated by Chickapanagie's assurance. "That's fine, but I need this thing fixed. This has been going on for months. It's been—" he ran his hands through his sweaty hair, "it's been a nightmare. This is my kid. My boy."

"Yes, Johnny. And we will not abandon you to fight alone. You brought Tlootha back to us, and we will find your son and bring him back to you. But you cannot rush communion with The Great Father. I will need to gather my strength and the strength of my tribe, for we cannot dispel the magic without them. We have many preparations to make."

Chickapanagie's words drizzled over John like rain on a glass window, warping and twisting as they descended. John fingered his ringing ear, blinked at the mug seeping tea into his lap, his other hand lying limp next to it. "Whassa?" He reached for the mug and missed, reached again and missed again. "Whassa cup…thing…huh?" He bobbed his head at Chickapanagie. "Chief?"

"Still just a medicine man, Johnny." Yunosi and Chickapanagie caught him as he fell, easing him onto the dirt floor. Their brown faces smiled at him, their soft voices hummed in his head. "No worries, there we go. We gotcha."

"Th'fuck ja'do?"

The medicine man snorted with mirth and arched an eyebrow skyward. "Nothing, much, man." He pointed to the upturned cup wetting John's crotch. "Herbal remedy for exhaustion. Had to do it. You're a hot mess, Johnny. We wouldn't be able to get you to rest without it. Go to sleep. We'll make preparations. Best not to have you underfoot anyway. We think the world of you, John Winchester, but you're a pain in the ass. Let us watch over you while your body and spirit recharge." The Havasupai man's brown eyes sparkled with mischief and tender concern.

Yunosi waved. "Sleep tight, John Winchester!"

"Basssards," was John's final word on the matter before sleep claimed him.

_**TBC**_

**i**

Assorted Pai Vocabulary:

_Gam'yu, nya nuwa _("Hello, my friend.")

_Dála _("Father")


	5. Hanging Pawns

_**J'adoube**_

**Chapter Five: Hanging Pawns**

"So, Mace's eyes go big as saucers, right? But she's mad, too…fiery mad and shaking, about to explode like a mushroom cloud, and she goes, _'I'm _Princess Jasmine_, now take it back and say you're sorry!'_ and I'm all, like…" Dean flattened his palms, wobbling them back and forth as if weighing two separate items. "_'Princess Jasmine—deranged, flat-chested Blue Meanie…mehhh…same diff!' _And, holy crap, you should have heard the scream come out'a her. I thought sure my mom was gonna ground me, but she just made me take Mace trick-or-treating that night as penance or something. Kid sisters, man, I tell you. But you know what? It made for a memorable Halloween." He dragged his shackled hand through his hair, laughing. "God, she thought she was something else, strutting around like a freaky blueberry all night. Why she thought Princess Jasmine had a blue dress _and_ blue skin, I've no idea. Maybe she confused the Genie with Jasmine. Even Mr. Adler, who's always been really sweet to her, couldn't help but laugh. That costume…wow." Dean snickered at the memory. He paused, nibbled the corner of a peanut butter sandwich but left most of it untouched. Sam sighed at that. He knew Dean was still avoiding having to use the bucket. "Your turn. What was your favorite Halloween?"

Shifting, Sam crunched into his granola bar, trying to pretend he didn't hear.

Dean wouldn't let him get away with it. "Well?"

"Mmm, we don't do anything."

"Aw, come on, don't tell me you never went trick-or-treating at least once."

Sam shrugged. "Naw. But last Halloween was pretty funny."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, well, see Dean and Dad had to salt and burn a body in this old graveyard, right? So anyway, they do it, and they're leaving, clothes torn and bloody because things went bad—you know—like they _always_ do. They've got corpse ashes all over their faces and clothes, so they're all pasty gray." Sam chuckled. "And they're limping out'a the graveyard like zombies, all beat up and moaning and stuff like that. And right before they get to the car…" Sam flopped back on the bed, laughing hard, staring at the ceiling. "So there they are, almost to the car, and then…they…they run into a group of trick-or-treaters and Dad and Dean are bleeding and stumbling and staggering everywhere, and these kids, like, totally freak out…" Sam laughed again, wiping tears away, "…they're seven or eight or something, and they drop their bags of candy right then and there and run away screaming. Oh man," Sam supported his diaphragm as he continued laughing, "we had candy for weeks after that…"

Sam levered up on his elbows to grin at Dean, only to see the boy blinking at him in appalled shock.

Sam cleared his throat. "Uhhh, well, um, I—I guess it was one of those situations you had to see to get how funny it was. But, I was in the backseat of the car. I saw the whole thing happen, and trust me, it was hysterical." He broke off a small piece of almond from his granola bar and chewed sheepishly, not knowing what else to do in the uncomfortable silence that descended. After another stilted moment, Sam brushed off his hands and rose from the bed. "It's getting dark."

He padded to the table and tended the oil lamp, refilled it, lit the wick. When he turned, he noticed Dean sitting on the bed, brows pleated, running a hand through his hair over and over again. Whenever the conversation lulled, Dean would sink into himself, homesick and scared. Sam decided to dig the car magazines out of the storage bin where he'd put them, let Dean focus on that for a while.

Opening the container, Sam rooted around, pushing aside the ammo and supplies other hunters had stored there. The magazines had slipped down the side of the box, so Sam dug for them. Toward the bottom he found a curious, wooden box and lifted it out, blew off the dust. When he did so, he heard the scatter and rattle of wood pieces inside the box. Noticing the checkerboard painted on both the top and bottom, Sam knew what he'd found.

"Cool!"

The car magazines forgotten, Sam brought the box to Dean. "I think I found something." He unlatched the box and nodded. "Yep! Chess!" He flipped the box over, revealing the built-in chessboard. "Wanna play?"

Dean looked at the board and scoffed. "That's a game for old men. I dunno know how to play."

Sam snorted. "Uh, yes you d—" He stopped, swallowed his words, remembering his truce. He'd promised not to call him Dean or try and convince him he was his brother. And Sam figured in the end it wouldn't matter if he convinced him or not. Once his dad came back and fixed things, he'd be Dean again with or without making _Will_ miserable while they waited. Sam smiled. "I mean, I'll teach you. It's easy." Their dad had taught them chess years ago. He saw it as a way to teach the boys critical thinking and strategy. And Dean had, in fact, been a very good player, so Sam knew if Dean could do it, Will certainly could.

"Isn't that for eggheads and geniuses or something?"

"No, it's fun. It really is. I bet Martin and Travis played when they were here. I'll show you how, okay?"

Dean sighed. "I guess. Not like I have anything better to do."

"Okay," Sam said, keeping his tone light. Setting up the board, he found one of the white pawns missing. "Darn. We're missing a piece." He went back to the bin and searched for it, didn't find it. "Maybe we can use something else instead."

"What about…" Dean put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a green army-man. He eyed it pensively. "Mace gave this to me. We were arguing over something—something I can't even remember—something stupid. We were always like that, the two of us. At each other, kidding and joking and squabbling." He ran his fingers up and down its length. "I'd die for her, though." He swallowed, handed the army-man over with a sigh. "Will this do?"

"Hey, yeah, that'll be perfect. Here, I'll set up and we can have a game."

Sam spent some time teaching Dean the basics, how each piece moved, how important it was to think ahead and strategize for later developments in the game. When they played their first match, Sam let Dean be white so he'd have the opening advantage, and as the game progressed, he explained some of Dean's mistakes, showing him where he went wrong. But it didn't take long before Dean learned—or relearned. Sam won the first two games, but by the third Dean had him on the run, using his pieces in combination to attack the way their dad had taught them. A bishop and two pawns down, Sam's play had turned defensive, and he scrambled to protect his king. So involved in finding a way out of his present predicament, he startled when Dean spoke.

"So, you and your family hunt ghosts? Like for real?"

Sam glanced up, his concentration broken. "Uh, yeah."

"I think that's rad. I mean, you get to be a superhero, get to rescue girls. You ever rescue a girl, Sam?"

"Not yet, but my dad has, and my brother helps him a lot now that he's getting older."

"Well, it's a good thing, right? Keeping people safe? I mean, the most I ever did was stop my spazzy kid sister from plowing through a plate-glass window."

"That's pretty heroic."

"Yeah, but it's not _super_ heroic. Your family's job is damn cool, you gotta admit, though."

"I suppose."

"Don't you like it?"

Sam sighed. He watched Dean's face. There wasn't a shred of memory there of all the good he'd done, all the hardships he'd endured. It was getting easier to think of him as _Will_ instead of Dean. It felt natural to share things with him that he would never normally share with his brother. "I—I wish we did anything else."

The boy quirked a brow. "Really? Why? I think it would be totally awesome to kill ghosts and stuff. It's like being a fireman or a police officer, only cooler—like a ninja!"

Sam made a move, easing his king into the corner against the onslaught crawling across the board. "It's a lot more dangerous than that. And that's one of the reasons I don't like it. I don't want my family always getting hurt. I don't want them to…" He didn't finish.

"I get it." Dean moved his king's pawn, leaving it vulnerable from several sides. "What would you rather do, then, if you could?"

Sam took the pawn with his knight. "I'd go to school in one place, for starters. I'd do theatre and soccer and all the things I can never do—well—not for long, anyway."

"Theatre? Wow, what a geek." Dean chuckled, moved his queen all the way to the left side, putting Sam's king in unexpected danger. "That's _check_, right?"

"Ugh. I fell for that one, didn't I?" Sam moved his king to safety. "Well, you know, theatre is one of the things I'd like to do. I could do lots of things. I'd like to go to college one day. A good one. You know, get an education and do something with my life. I'd still help people, but, you know, in a different way. A safer way. I dunno."

"Rad." Dean moved his _army-man_ pawn, freed by his earlier sacrifice, up a square, preventing the king from moving from his present position. Before releasing his piece, he studied the board. "So, if I move my knight here next time, that'll be _checkmate_, right?"

"Whoa! Um…uh…" Studying the board, he confirmed it. "Man, you learn fast!" He tipped his king onto its side, ceding the game. "Good game, Will."

"Yeah, you too, geekboy."

Sam checked his watch. "It's late. We should get some sleep. Dad'll be back tomorrow. I know he will." He put the pieces in the box then returned the chessboard to the bin. Yawning, he took his place at the table, resting his head on his arms. "Night, Will."

"Uh, Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"You know, there's plenty of room on the bed. It's lumpy and uncomfortable, but it's better than sleeping in a chair."

Sam smiled in the dark. Making his way to the bed he clambered up and curled next to his brother.

"Just don't put your bony knees in my back, doofus." Dean wiggled toward the wall.

"Sorry."

"S'okay, dweeb."

They quieted and Sam's mind drifted until Dean spoke in the dark.

"I hope you get to go to college one day, Sam. You deserve it."

**i**

John swiped his fist against his mouth and licked his dry, sticky lips. At the catch of fresh gauze on stubble, he opened his eyes and fanned his wounded palm in front of his face, blinking it into focus.

Cleaned and rebandaged with white linen gauze, John's bite wound ached but was healing well. As he inspected the new bandage, he heard a rustle at the foot of the soft bed he'd been moved to at some point. John gave Chickapanagie a dopy stare as the hunter stretched his sleepy muscles.

"Good afternoon, Johnny. You grind your teeth in your sleep. You should see a dentist about that."

John fluttered his eyelashes and glanced around the sparse bedroom. "Afternoon? Wh'time s'it?"

"It's about 2:00pm—tomorrow. You've been asleep for over thirty hours. We moved you to my _hawa_ because you snore. Scared the tourists. Very bad for business."

John stopped, mid-yawn and gawped at the medicine man sitting there, blithely whittling a small, wood figurine. As he watched him thumb over his work, blowing away the wood shavings, John saw ancient wisdom inscribed in each line and fold of his face, noted the sharp intelligence behind the crinkled smile in his eyes. And without another thought, John bounded from the bed, throwing a sloppy, gauzy punch at the man.

Long sleep had his timing all wrong, though, and the Havasupai man dropped his katsina and dodged the blow. Grabbing John's fist, he used the momentum of his punch to swing the irate man around and pin him face-first into the bed.

"Let me up you prick!" John bucked against the medicine man. "You fucking drugged me, dammit!"

"Yes. I did. And if I hadn't, you would not be able to help your son. But look at you, now, hunter man. You're strong enough to throw punches. Would have landed it, too, if you'd been hydrated. But we'll soon fix that, then you can get your petty revenge." He gripped John, dusted him off, gave him a sniff and a pat. "First, you must bathe in the sacred pool and attend the Sweat." He turned his face away to breathe. "Yep…definitely a bath first. C'mon, Johnny. We have much to do before we take your son back from Tochopa's winged warriors."

**i**

Will Darnell plucked the fallen soldier from a fold of the army blanket they'd spread on the floor next to the bed.

He gave the toy a respectful salute and cleared his throat. "You served well, soldier!" Pinching his eyes shut, he tossed the toy off to the side with the other slain soldiers then wiped his brow. "That's it, doof, your ass is mine!"

Shimmying onto his belly, legs splayed, chains rattling, Will gathered his forces and began a shock-and-awe campaign only to find it thwarted by an onslaught of enemy forces edging their way, line by line, over a large fold in the blanket.

"Rawwhhhh! Pew! Pew! Pew!" The enemy soldiers engaged Will's strongest platoon, and the ensuing battle resulted in the near decimation of both armies. The bloodbath continued until just one soldier remained on either side.

Will's sole surviving army-man jumped Sam's. "Surrender!"

"No!"

Will's toy stood on Sam's. "Say Uncle!"

"Never!"

"Do it, worm!" The army-man hopped up and down on Sam's toy, squashing it into the blanket.

"No, brother…no….!" The wounded soldier reached out to his vanquisher. "We…both…have…" Sam gasped and groaned, putting his acting talents to use. "Too…much…to…live…for! Ahhhgghhh!"

The performance touched off Will's sympathy. "Aw…it's okay, little guy. Here," he helped the enemy soldier to his feet, "let's go to the bar and get drunk together, instead."

"Now you're talkin'…"

The two army-men hop-jumped off the blanket toward the water bottles.

Will laughed. "I guess this is what you call a _draw_ in chess, right?" Will tossed his army-man into the pile next to the rumpled blanket. He stretched out his legs, his back to the bed.

Sam grabbed the water bottles and handed one to Will. "That's right! It is. S'a good ending though, don't you think?" He uncapped his drink and swallowed half of it.

"It kinda is," Will agreed and took two small sips of the water, aching for more.

Things had gotten easier over the past day, since Sam had stopped hounding him about who he was or wasn't. He'd wanted to keep his distance, stay mad at him…not let the little doof get under his skin, but it was hard to stay mad a kid who just wanted his brother, even if it wasn't him. Instead the two had hung out together, playing games. He wasn't such a bad guy. Had it not been for the kidnapping, the chains and the debilitating thirst and hunger, Will would have been happy to spend time with Sam. He was good company. Stopping himself from drinking too much water, he capped the bottle, set it on the bed. He caught Sam frowning at him. "What?"

"You need to drink more, Will. You don't look right. Your skin's all dry, and you're not even sweating anymore. I don't think that's a good sign. Please drink. I know you don't like having to pee in that bucket, but you need water. We're in the middle of the desert."

Will had already pissed in the bucket for the second time when he woke up that morning despite how little water he'd consumed the day before, and the experience had been even more humiliating than the first time he'd done it. The dark urine had stunk much worse than the first time he'd gone. He wasn't going through that again. No way. As much as he hated The Perv, he hoped he'd get back soon so he could get the chains off and piss on his own. He picked up the bottle with as much non-interest as he could muster, opened it and took a couple more sips to shut the kid up. "There. Happy?"

"It's a start, I guess," Sam said. "I just don't want you to get sick."

Will rolled his eyes at the kid. "I'm fine, shrimp. Don't worry, geez."

Sam sighed, gathered some of his dead soldiers, searched through the blanket for more casualties. "This was fun," he said. "We used to do this all the time. Dean and me used to, I mean."

"Oh yeah?"

"Mmm hmm." Sam studied a soldier. "Kinda stopped right about the time he became a teenager, though. Started helping Dad more with hunting. No time for kid stuff. I think there are still stray army-men in the car. I find one every now and again. Dunno what ever happened to the others. Must've got lost on a hunt or left in a motel room, maybe." Sam's eyes stuttered over him, worried he'd said too much, perhaps. "Sorry, I won't talk about him if you don't want to."

Will swiped his hand through his hair, sat up, sighed. "No, it's okay. As long as…" He didn't finish, but Sam nodded, acknowledging their agreement. Will scooped up a handful of army-men. "Well, you can have these if you want, little man. I have lots more at home."

Sam brightened at that—or at the name—Will wasn't sure which. "Thanks!" Sam took the army-men but dropped them into Will's backpack. "We'll keep them all together for now, though." He looked around the place, his brows furrowing. "Dad really should be back anytime, now."

He stood and peered out the window nearest the bed. It was too far away for Will to see, but the light shone pale on Sam's face as his eyes darted around the barren desert. "These times always suck the worst. Waiting. Normally Dean and me have some cartoons to take our minds off things, but times like these…" he shivered. "Stuck in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do. Ugh. So boring. Having Dean always made it better, though. I miss him."

Will glanced away, not knowing what to do with all that. Everything was getting all mixed up in his head, lines were blurring. He had this unaccountable urge, this overwhelming desire to grab the kid, to promise him everything would be all right…to protect him as he would Mace or his parents. It was nuts. Maybe it was the lack of water talking or something.

Will cleared his parched throat, smirked big. "Oh God, you're such a girl." It was a dry bite, though, and Sam must have known because he smiled at him.

"Yeah," he said. "I've heard one that before."

**i**

John Winchester heard the familiar Havasupai greeting behind him.

"_Gam'yu_, John!"

Spinning around, John fumbled to hide his exposed junk. Chickapanagie had left him to bathe in the milky blue water, promising privacy, telling him it was required before the Sweat Ceremony began, but judging from Tlootha's grin, he was now suspicious of the medicine man's assurance. Prick.

John scrambled for his clothes, but before he could reach them, the young man barreled into him with an enthusiastic embrace. "Uh, Tlootha…" John broke the hug, "kinda naked, here."

"Sorry John. I'm so happy to see you. My heart soars."

"Yeah-yeah, okay. Move it." He grabbed his pants and crammed his legs into them. Once covered, he took a long look at the kid—well, not a kid anymore. The past five years had transformed him into a full-grown man, chiseled jaw, thick but muscular body. Strong, like his father. It made John feel the gaping hole of Dean's absence inside him all the more. "Good to see you, boy. How are you?"

"I am well, John. Every day is a blessing. I have two sons!" His face shone with pride.

"Yeah, I saw your youngest. Congratulations." John pulled his shirt over his head, passed his hand through his wet hair.

"Thank you. I would fight the gods for him if they ever tried to take him, so I stand with you, John. Others do, too. Pagathiya Uta, Tsoojva—many of the elders are gathered. I cannot partake in the Sweat as I have to fly in the morning, but I will act as a firekeeper. We are all prepared to do battle for your son." Tlootha retrieved John's watch from the rock where he'd placed it, gave it to him. "_Dála_—my father—has sent me to bring you to the Sweat. He and Yunosi are blessing the elders now. The ceremony is about to begin." Tlootha pointed to the waiting horses.

John shoved his feet into his shoes. "I'm ready. Let's go."

"Oh," Tlootha stopped, "we will need a focus for both the Sweat and the Cleansing ritual to dispel the magics. Since you did not bring your son with you, _Dála_ asks if you have something belonging to him, something we can use to contain the healing. Do you have anything?"

John thought a moment then dug into his pocket. "I have this." He lifted out Dean's amulet. "Will it do?"

Tlootha fingered the nub of the amulet, considering. "Let us take it to _Dála_. He will tell us."

John put the amulet around his neck and gripped it in his fist as he followed Tlootha from the pool.

**i**

Traveling via horseback, they reached the southern outskirts of Supai. Tlootha pointed to a small, open lawn upon which a large wickiup had been built, fat with hides and blankets. Dozens of Havasupai men and women in light dress gathered round. Yunosi stood wafting sage on each of them in turn.

Chickapanagie spotted the duo and hailed them, eyes twinkling. The men dismounted, handing off the reins to helpers who led the horses away. Chickapanagie greeted them. "_Gam'yu_, John."

"Big crowd." John observed, watching the people enter one by one into the wickiup.

"Yes. These are our elders. Many of them are parents of the children you saved when the demon took Tlootha. They are here to assist in the rescue, so they must prepare their spirits as well. Come. We are almost ready."

Tlootha joined the other firekeepers, placing the heated, sacred stones within the pit inside the thickly shrouded wickiup. They handled each stone with reverence and prayer, invoking the tribe's ancestors to assist them in their quest.

"Did you bring an item for the altar?"

John gripped the amulet. "I have this. It belongs to my son."

The medicine man studied the horned talisman. "Yes. It has strong energies. It will do well, I think." He pointed to the readied lodge. "Let us go in and cleanse our souls."

Before they entered the wickiup, Chickapanagie waved a smoking bundle of sage around John, entreating each of the four elements to protect and guide them.

John coughed through the cloud of smoke. "All right, all right. That's enough, chief. I'm ready. Let's do this."

"You cannot rush a Sweat Ceremony. Be still and respect each moment spent here. This will not work if you do not go in with the proper intention. So shut up and do what I say, hunter man."

John sighed, closed his eyes, protecting them from the smoke while Chickapanagie finished his invocation. He put little stock in the power of prayer, but he'd do whatever he had to in order to get his son back.

"There. We are ready." Leading John into the lodge, Chickapanagie instructed him to hang the amulet from the prepared altar and seated him near the steam pit. "It is time, my friend. Let us begin."

With that, Chickapanagie closed the hide flaps and utter darkness descended.

**i**

Sam topped off the oil lamp again, lit the wick and replaced the chimney. Another evening had begun with no hint of Sam's father returning.

"Don't worry, Will. He'll be back." The kid sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than Will. "We're still okay on fuel and supplies. I'm sure Dad'll be home tomorrow."

He'd spoken casually, but Will could tell the boy was concerned his dad hadn't shown. Sam had been staring at his watch all afternoon, looking out the window. He'd gone for a short walk down the road only to return twenty minutes later, wilted from the scalding sun. He'd drank two full bottles of water after that excursion alone and had pressed Will to drink some, too, but Will refused, holding out hope Sam's dad would come back and take him off the chains.

Not that he was keen on seeing the freaky Perv again, but Will couldn't hope to convince him to let him go if he wasn't there. Another day of this and he would have to drink no matter how humiliating it might be. Then before you knew it, he'd be peeing and pooping in a bucket like a trained monkey, and he didn't want to give the man the satisfaction of breaking him that way.

But things were getting bad. Will'd sipped some water here and there, but he now had a headache and he felt exhausted, though he did his best to hide it from Sam. The little kid continued to fuss at him, pestering him to drink.

And here he was again, coming over with a bottle of water and a candy bar.

"You sure you don't want some? We still got lots of other stuff. You've only eaten one of the pies; we got plenty, Will. Please?"

"Not right now," Will said. He sat, playing with Macy's hairpin, keeping that connection to home, holding it like a talisman, hoping his family could somehow, someway feel him through it.

Sam sighed, trudged to the table, setting the drink and food down with a thump. "Man, I wish he'd get back all ready!" He wandered to the window, twitchy with cabin fever and worry. "This sucks. Dad promised he'd be back by now!"

"Does he always return on time?"

Sam coughed at that, rolled his shoulders. "No…" he huffed, "this is pretty normal for him, actually. But I thought with things crazy like they are, that he'd come back when he said he would. It's hot and this is taking forever."

"Do you wanna play a game of chess?" Will offered, trying to ease the kid's distress.

"Naw," Sam shrugged him off, cracking his knuckles, wringing his hands. "I want this to be over. I want to get out'a here. And I want you to drink water. This isn't right. You're getting sick. I can see it. You're stubborn and putting yourself through hell just to teach Dad a lesson and he's not even here to learn it. So, it's stupid! You're being stupid!"

"Hey, come here." Will patted the spot beside him. Sam moped his way over and flopped down next to him. "Don't worry about me, little man. I can hold out. If your dad isn't here by the morning then I'll drink whatever you want me to, deal? I just don't like…." He sighed, fumbled with his chains, unable to say it.

"Yeah, I know. I'm sorry about all this. It sucks."

"So, tell me," Will changed the subject, determined to take the kid's mind off his problems. "What kind of stuff do you and your brother do for fun? Like, what do you do when your dad isn't around and it's just you and your brother?"

Sam studied his fingers, tugging on each one in nervous boredom. "Lots'a stuff. Dean loves to mess around. He likes to wrestle; though, he can be a bit of a jerk about it, too."

"Oh? You mean your perfect brother isn't…_perfectly _perfect after all?" Will raised his eyebrows in mock shock. "The way you describe him, I thought sure he was a freakin' saint or something."

Searching Will's face, Sam's eyes shone like he had a secret joke. "No, not at all. I mean, sure he's great and all, and I want him back more than I can say. But he can be a big pain sometimes."

"So what does he do that's a pain?"

Sam chuckled, hesitated for a beat and then decided to share. "Well, for one thing, he always makes me smell his farts."

Will snickered. "But that's hysterical. I mean, Mace is the happy, or, you know, not-so-happy, recipient of some of my finest."

Failing to hide his grin, Sam huffed. "Yeah, I guess it's funny as hell when you're the farter. It's totally not so great when you're the fartee."

Will nodded. "I can see that. Okay, so, what else? What else does he do that pisses you off."

Sam sobered some, side-eyed Will. "He always takes Dad side on things. Always tells me whatever crazy thing Dad does, he does for a reason. He never questions anything Dad says or does."

"Well, you'll get no argument out'a me over that, but maybe things are different for him than they are for you. Being the oldest ain't the picnic you might think."

"Yeah, I guess. And now he's getting older he's a lot more interested in girls than he used to be. He used to be really, really fun. Now it's all girls, girls, girls."

"Uhh, well duh! They're _girls_! What do you expect? Wait 'til _you_ hit puberty. It'll make a whole lot more sense, then." He gave Sam a cheeky grin.

"Yeah, but before all that, he used to like spending time with me. We used to have some awesome times with just the two of us. We'd be stuck in a motel room for days and days. He'd always make the time fly by…he'd always think of the funnest games to play. I mean, we perfected the airplane dismount. He'd make it so I flew, like, ten feet away or something. Well, at least six."

"The what where, now? _Airplane dismount?_ What's that?"

"You know…the _airplane_ game. It's where Dean would lie on his back and then I'd fly against his hands and feet and he'd kick up and send me flying through the air. It was real fun. I miss it."

"Ohhh, sure. I think I know that game. Mace and I play it sometimes. Like this?"

Will stored the hairpin in his backpack and tossed the whole thing to the side of the bed. Shifting to the floor, he laid on his back, feet and arms extended.

"Yeah, that's it!"

"Well, get on, doof!" Will wiggled his ankles.

Sam stepped close, allowed Will to press his feet against his groin. Using a bit of torque, Will lifted the boy up and over him until they latched arms. Will stretched out, giving Sam more of an airplane experience.

"This it?"

Sam laughed. "Yeah! This is it! Whoa!" Sam's arms shook as he adjusted his balance while Will shifted this way and that, simulating the bank and pitch of an aircraft.

"Turbulence!" Will laughed as he bounced his legs, jiggling the kid.

"Ai..yi..yi..yi!" Sam warbled as he jounced up and down. "Now the crash landing!"

"Crash landing?" Will let go, relaxing his limbs as Sam crashed on top, knocking the wind out of him. "Ugh! You're heavy, squirt!"

"No, not that type of crash landing." Sam sat up, laughing. "It's where you push me off with your feet so I can do the big dismount."

"Uh, okay. Get on." Will offered his legs and arms again, got into position, lifted Sam.

"Okay, now hold your hands stiff, but don't hang on, then push off with your feet, like thhHAT!"

Will popped his feet, pushing the kid off him. The boy sailed back, landing on agile legs a few feet away.

"Yeah!" Sam laughed and pumped his fist in the air. "Now that's what I'm talkin' about! We haven't done this in ages." He looked at Will, his face flushed with fun. "Let's do it again!" He dove onto Will's feet like that chick from _Dirty Dancing_, arms extended wide.

Will had to adjust quickly and together they wobbled and bobbled back and forth. "Oh my god, you're such a spaz!" He laughed, pumped his feet up and down. "You want a big crash landing?" He extended out his legs as far as they would go. "Or a little crash landing?" He drew them in toward his chest.

Breathless from laughter, Sam gasped, "Big! Big crash landing!"

"All right, you asked for it, twerp!" Will shimmied his back against the floor, preparing, and with a quick pump, Sam went sailing.

And though it took but a flash of time for the whole horrific event to unfold, Will saw each millisecond play out in minute detail. Sam's face went from laughter to shock at how much lift Will had been able to give him. He sailed through the air, his arms helicoptering around and around as he strove for balance. Will knew what was going to happen, knew he couldn't stop it. He only had the time to shout _'No!'_ but by then it was far, far too late.

Sam's shoulder blades crashed into the table, and his legs went out from under him. Falling onto his butt with a thud, the table tipped over behind him, and the oil lamp shattered against the wood floor with a splash and a woof of flame.

The kid's eyes bugged as the room lit with golden light. Pivoting, he watched the flames chase the oil wherever it flowed. He spun toward Will, a shocked, disbelieving expression on his face.

"Shit!" Will shouted. "Shit! Shit! Move!" Sam ran toward Will and grabbed the old army blanket off the bed. Approaching the flames, he tried to smother them. The blanket sopped up the wet oil and flame, turning it into a flailing torch. The heat forced Sam to drop it, spreading the fire further into the room.

"It's not working!" Sam shouted, panicked.

Will ran toward him but his chains snapped him back. And that's when it hit both of them. Horror lit Sam's face as he watched Will wrestle with his handcuffs.

Sam ran to the wall, yanking the chain with all his might, working to extricate it from the hook. His distress and inability to get it to budge was easy to read against the reflection of the dancing flames on his face.

"Just put it out. Take care of the fire. I'll get these." Will shouted through the black smoke filing the room. The hot flames slithered up the door and front wall. "Get the water! Get the water and dump it!"

Sam struggled with the chains a moment longer before Will pried him away.

"Stop! Go get the water!"

Leaving Will, Sam wove his way around the fire, trying to reach the water, but the heat and black smoke pouring from the walls and thatch roof made it impossible.

"Hot! Oh, God! It's too hot!" Sam coughed, forced to retreat toward the bed.

Will fought against the chains with such abandon that blood spattered the rusty links and he felt his shoulder pop out of its socket then back in. An adrenaline surge mercifully muted the pain. Try as he might, though, he could not free himself. He reeled on Sam. "Leave!" He shouted. "Get out'a here!" He turned toward the door checking to see if there was a chance.

It didn't matter though. The kid refused. "No! I'm not leaving you! We have to get you out'a those chains first!" Sam beat his fists against the iron clips on the wall. Following the chain to Will's ankle, he struggled to get his foot to bend straight enough to pass the cuff over it. The boy looked up at Will, shattered. "I can't get them off."

"I know! That's why you gotta go, now!" Will's protective instincts kicked in, and nothing was more important than getting that kid out of the cabin.

Sam shook him off, coughing and gagging. "Not without…" He stiffened, his eyes huge with sudden hope. "The hairpin! Where is it?"

"The what?"

"Macy's hairpin! Get it. You can pick the locks!"

"No I can't! I don't know how!" He shouted above the roaring flames.

Sam rooted around, hands splayed as he patted the bed. He found the backpack by touch between the bed and the wall and gave it to Will. "Find it! It's the only way!"

Will opened the front pouch and snatched the hairpin, set it in Sam's palm. "There. Can you open it?"

"No, no! Not me. You!" Sam pressed it back into Will's palm. "Here! You have to do it. I never learned, but you can do this easy!" Tears poured from his stinging eyes, leaving pink tracks on his frightened, sooty face.

"Are you nuts? I've never done this in my life!"

"Yes you have! You have! You _are_ Dean. I know I promised not to talk about it, but it's the truth. I swear to God. You're Dean Winchester. You're my brother. You just don't remember. But it's all inside you! I know it is. You can do this easy! Now, pick the lock, Dean, please!"

The boy's screams were so fierce and desperate, so panicked, Will found himself grabbing the hairpin and shoving it into the handcuff on his wrist. Nothing happened. The smoke forced them to the floor, and they kept as low as they could, the fire creeping nearer every second. From across the room, they heard the gurgling hiss of water hitting the fire. The water bottles must have melted, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't near enough to stop the spread of fire. With the front door now fully engulfed in flame, he searched out the window nearest the bed.

"Break the window and get out, Sam. I'll keep working on this. Go on! We'll need it open when I get these off!" He didn't believe a word he said, but he hoped Sam did.

Sam crawled to the window, pulled himself up and began beating on it with his fists. The thick glass used to insulate the cabin from the desert sun prevented the boy from breaking the glass on his own. Flames blanketed the table and chairs. He had nothing to use but his fists. He gasped and strained as he fruitlessly beat against the panes.

Will gave the lock another shot, but he had no clue how to work it, jabbing it radomly. A hissing whump and blazing flare signaled the flames had found the spare oilcan. The strangling smoke burned his lungs with every breath, so it came as no surprise when he heard a thump and saw Sam fall in a heap under the unbroken window.

"Sammy! No!" He screamed the kid's name. "Wake up! Get out!"

Sam moaned and gulped but made no other move.

Seeing Sam like that, something snapped in Will, and a primal instinct took over. Time was running out, and this little kid who only wanted his brother back was gonna die right here, right now in this cabin. No one would ever know about him, no one would ever know how hard he'd tried to make Will comfortable, no one would ever never know how crappy life had been to him and how he'd made the most of it, anyway. He'd never get to go to college. Will took the hairpin, no longer thinking, allowing his body or sense memory or blind panic to work his hand. Spreading the pin flat, Will broke off the angel wing and removed the small, plastic tip. He then placed the pin into the lock and bent it at a 90 degree angle. Resting it under the handcuff housing, he added the exact amount of tension needed to bypass the lock. The cuff sprang open with a snick.

He did the same with his ankle cuff, and in seconds Will was free for the first time in days. Grabbing his backpack off the bed he shouldered it and crawled over to Sam.

"Sammy! Sammy, wake up!"

"Dean?" Sam pawed at him, disoriented, coughing.

"Hang on! I gotta get the window open." Standing, Will slammed his shoulder against the glass to no avail. The heat and smoke sent his senses reeling and he knew he had only a few seconds before they both succumbed. Raising his fists, he used all his might to punch through the glass, grabbing at the remaining shards even as they bit into his hands and arms. He hit and punched a hole wide enough to accommodate their escape. Smoke poured from the window in roiling plumes.

"Up!" Will's voice cracked with smoke as he hoisted Sam, pinning him against the window and folding the semi-conscious boy over and out, spilling him onto the ground. The kid landed on his back, unmoving, gagging and coughing. Will's head swam so fiercely he found it difficult to know what he was doing, but he tipped himself forward, falling into a heap on top of Sam.

Even outside, the heat and smoke remained intense near the cabin, so Will dragged Sam about fifty feet away, leaving a bloody trail behind him. Collapsing onto his back, he coughed and choked on thick, sooty mucus as he watched stars in the desert sky roll and sway in the warped heat above him.

Clinging to Sam, Will turned the boy over and hit his back with slick hands, trying to help him catch his breath as the fire rippled and fluttered like a million blankets, wafting scorching heat at them. A loud pop and bright flare signaled the flames had found the propane tank, and Will covered Sam's body with his own, protecting him from falling debris and cinder sparks that floated down, biting his skin wherever they landed. A few seconds later, the thatch roof collapsed as the fire chewed at the remains of the cabin.

They were alive. They were stuck in the middle of the desert with no water, no food and no way out, but they were alive.

_**TBC**_


	6. Pawn Sacrifice

**A/N: My sincerest thanks to all folks signed in as guests for their reviews for both chapters 4 and 5. Each one of you put a smile on my face.**

**A/N: Translations for all Pai language phrases are listed at the end of the chapter.**

_**J'adoube**_

**Chapter Six: Pawn Sacrifice**

Sam watched a small, spotted lizard dash past his nose. Cheek pressed to the earth, he bent his head to follow the track of the reptile as it scurried on its way. The simple movement agitated his singed lungs, and Sam choked on sooty phlegm, spitting it out and breathing in a lungful of dust on the return breath. That set off a whole new round of coughing until his diaphragm contracted and he lost the meager contents of his stomach. Spluttering rancid bile, he passed a hand across his lips and made to shift his body away from the mess, but something heavy stopped him. He levered up on his elbows and found Dean draped over him, his brother's limp body painted red from the lazy flames licking the charred remains of the cabin and gold from the impending sunrise striking the cirrus clouds high above.

As Sam eased out from underneath his brother, Dean moaned and folded into a patch of bloody earth, coughing. The boy hissed in pain as he curled his wounded hands into his chest.

"Oh God, Dean, your hands." Sam rose and examined Dean's wounds with a sharp intake of breath, wincing at the angry crisscross of cuts running up and down his arms. Somehow, the glass must have missed his major arteries, though Sam wasn't sure how, judging by the bloody mess that remained. Just the same, far too much blood had spilled, but the wounds appeared to have clotted on their own while they'd been unconscious. Dirt and ash filled each of the lacerations, swelling the skin. Dean's throat hitched with every slight movement.

Sam helped his brother into a sitting position, and Dean blinked dry, bloodshot eyes, a stark contrast to the charcoal mask covering his pain-stricken face. He sat, unspeaking, staring at the remains of the cabin, shell-shocked and numb.

A minute later, Dean's weary glance rolled over Sam. "Y'okay?" he croaked, his voice raw. He sat up higher, trying to buy a better look at Sam, but he lost his balance and had to fling out a hand to catch himself. The action wrenched a cry from him. "Aaghh!"

"Don't, Dean—Will. Don't try to use 'em. Lean on me." Sam pulled on Dean's shirt, situating him so he could free his hands. His brother fell against his chest and Dean held his jerking arms out as he strove to manage the pain. The sudden movement had reopened some of the deeper cuts, and drops of fresh blood splashed onto the earth.

Dean gathered himself and asked again, "Y'okay?"

Sam puffed a breath. "Uh, yeah. Better'n you, I think."

"Huh, no offense squirt, but you don' look s'good."

That drew a small laugh from Sam, but he paid the price for it. He swung his head away, hacking more smoke from his burning lungs. Noticing Dean's backpack lying beside them, he picked it up, considering. "We need to wrap your hands. You got anything that might work in your pack?"

Dean gave a listless shake of his head. "Jus' army-men. Help me get m'shirt off. We can use it for m'hands. Ahhhgh." He hissed, lifting his arms so Sam could tug the t-shirt over them.

"Sorry, sorry!" he said when Dean released a sharp gasp. Working together, they got the shirt off, and biting one of the seams, Sam rent it in two, using each of the panels to bind Dean's hands. They had nothing to tape the fabric in place, so he tied them off at the wrists. After that, they ran out of material. The deep cuts above remained untended. Sam began picking off his shirt.

"Don't you do that." Dean shouldered into him, stopping him from removing the garment. "Keep it on. M'fine like this."

"No you're not!"

"The sun's risin' Sam. Y'gotta keep it on."

"So? _You_ don't have a shirt."

"No, but you're gonna help me put my backpack on an' that'll be better'n nothing. You need your shirt, kiddo. Sun's gonna be too hot in another hour."

"But you're hurt, Will. You're hurt bad. We gotta do something."

Dean smiled weakly. "Yeah," he looked around them, studied the rising sun, "yeah, we're gonna do something, munchkin. We're gonna get into some shade. That's what we're gonna do, okay? C'mon." He struggled to his feet, holding his hands to his rumbling chest. "C'mon Sam, you good to go?"

"Yeah." Sam hawked up more phlegm and spit it in the dirt. He helped situate the backpack on Dean's shoulders with as little jostling as possible. Dean stifled a whimper when his arm became entangled in the strapping. Sam stopped. "I'm sorry. So sorry."

Dean stalled a moment, catching his breath. "M'good." He took his time rethreading his arm through the shoulder-straps and nudged his chin toward the large outcrop of limestone towering behind the remains of the cabin. "Let's head up there. Sun won't get to us for a few hours. Maybe by then your dad'll be here."

Sam swallowed. "Yeah, okay. He'll be here before that. He's probably on his way right now." With the sun breaking the horizon, the outcrop cast a long, purple shadow to the west. They'd be able to stay in the shade there and watch the road.

The brothers leaned against each other as they made their slow way to the outcrop, staggering up the slope. The distance did not test them, but the uneven and soft terrain did. Trickles of rocks spilled down as they climbed, unbalancing them. Sam supported Dean as much as he could, but even without setting off small avalanches, his brother swayed and tripped over small stones. Sam had to steady him several times, his own legs shaking with every step. They often stopped to cough, clearing their lungs of thick, smoky mucus.

Sam talked to keep up their spirits as they walked. "Dad's on the way right now, wanna bet? He'll have tons of water, and we have a big first aid kit, too. Lots of bandages and stuff for your hands." He'd also have a potion or a spell—something to undo what had been done to Dean, and the only lasting effect would be that his favorite shirt got ruined. He'd be pissed about that for sure. Sam didn't say any of that, though. Instead he nodded toward Dean's hands. "You picked those locks real good, Will. You did it perfectly."

Dean's brows corrugated, and Sam watched his brother fight his doubt, choosing instead to cling to his delusions. His brother disguised his fear with a flippant shrug. "Got lucky. Dunno what I was doing. Jammed the pin in where it mattered most and it opened. Wasn't skill, just dumb, blind luck." He remained quiet for a moment then, "And I was scared."

Sam glanced at him. "Of the fire?"

"I was scared you wouldn't make it out'a the cabin. That's why I got the locks open. Adrenaline rush or somethin', like a six-year-ol' lifting a car off a parent who's trapped underneath. That's all it was."

"Okay, Will." Sam had no intention of pushing him. He'd keep his focus on surviving until their dad came to get them. That's all that mattered right now. "You don't have to—"

"Because I ain' him. I'm sorry. An' you shouldn't a'said I was. You promised me you wouldn't."

Sam sighed. "I'm sorry."

"The locks jus' came undone. Prolly rusted or something."

"Okay, sure."

Reaching the rock wall, they scanned the desert floor. With a clear view of the road, they'd be able to see the Impala coming from a couple miles away.

Sitting on a flat slab of warm limestone, Sam traced the smoldering ruins of the cabin. Blinking beside him, his brother cleared his throat, went to say something but stopped.

After a long pause, he spoke. "'Cause if I'm him that means I'm gonna lose everything and everyone I love. Macy…" he said the name and swallowed, his jaw trembling. "Dad, Mom…" He hung his head. "I'm not him." His red eyes fell on Sam. "I'm not."

"Okay." Sam leaned into his brother. "Don't think about it. We just gotta get through today. Everything's gonna be okay."

**i**

A voice came out of the sweltering dark. "You're all right. Drink slow, Johnny. Slow."

Chasing the container, John grew angry and desperate enough to open his heavy lids. He clung to Chickapanagie's hand, preventing him from taking away the water and pressed the bottle back against his lips, taking several more instinctive, greedy gulps.

"Easy there. Don't swallow my fingers, I need them for dice games. The water's not going anywhere." The medicine man set the bottle down. "Take a break."

John peered at his friend squatting on the balls of his feet in front of him. "Wh'happened?" He rose with a grunt, rubbing his aching head.

The medicine man capped the bottle and ran a chestnut hand over his white, beaded braids, taking his measure of the hunter. "Sweat Ceremony, remember?"

"Uh, yes…and no." John licked his lips, cobbling his thoughts. His tattered memory of the ceremony consisted of a blur of drums and rattles, sage and cactus. The droning chants and prayers, plus the stifling heat, had gone on and on, round after round, hour after hour, until he'd lost all sense of space and time.

"Very common for first-timers. You did good, though. Our souls are clean. We will make ready to do battle at sunset. Not long, now." The shaman leaned in, offering him more water.

John startled at that, pushed the bottle away, craning his neck this way and that, noticing the sunlight pouring into the canyon, already high in the sky. "Sunset? What the hell time is it?"

"Past noon. We will prepare the bonfire, and begin battle as soon as we can assemble the tribe. It'll take a—"

"My kids," John lurched up too fast and found himself kissing dirt a second later.

"Easy there, _Wobbles_." Chickapanagie gripped his shoulder, keeping him on the ground as he strove to rise.

"I can't leave my kids another day. Can you see them? Are they all right?"

The Havasupai man's face clouded and he sat, breathing deep. A moment later he spoke, "I cannot feel them. Tochopa's Winged Ones are playing the Great Game even as we speak. All I see is white when I search for them. I am blocked. They do not want me touching the pawns. I think they know what we're doing. They mean to stop us. Come, let us break our fast with Meala bread, and then we will fight the gods."

**i**

They'd lost their shade at some point, Will couldn't remember when. Hunched on the rock slab, they'd made themselves as small as possible, hiding from the unrelenting heat preying upon them. Squinting at the sky, Will saw the sun had only just begun its slow, torturous journey toward the western horizon. His vision whited out from the dazzling light, and he folded his head over his knees, striving to remember what they were doing and why he was so thirsty. He swished his thick tongue around, trying and failing to moisten his mouth.

He vaguely recalled having a conversation with Sam when they'd first lost their shade. They'd considered chasing it around to the eastern side of the outcrop, but for some reason they'd never gotten up to do it. Or maybe they'd tried and failed. Or—no—maybe they'd discussed it and reckoned the distance was too great to be able to see the road or hear Sam's dad return from the other side. That was it. They'd decided to stay near the cabin so when Sam's dad arrived and saw the smoke, he wouldn't assume the worst. He also remembered them tinkering with the idea of hiking to the highway, but they'd never done that either. He didn't know why. He couldn't concentrate on anything but water.

"Y'okay?" Sam spoke hollow words around his swollen tongue.

Will shifted on the rock, surfacing from his swimming thoughts—or had he been asleep? Everything felt like a dream even when he was awake.

The day had been punctuated by false hope after false hope. He'd seen his dad more than once, walking up the slope with a big smile, telling him they were on for the Vegas Auto Show after all. He'd held out a bottle of water for Will to celebrate, but each time he'd grabbed for it, the bottle had evaporated. Macy'd been there, too, giggling as she ran toward him, three popsicles in hand, one for each of them—the fat kind that resembled red-white-and-blue rockets—their favorite. But the instant he went to take the treat, she'd disappeared too.

It had been so frustrating, and not just the tease of a drink, either. Every time his mom or dad or Macy disappeared it felt like he'd lost them forever. It terrified him. One time his dad had brought him a big bottle of Gatorade, but when Will'd reached to take it, he found his hands cuffed. It wasn't until he'd picked the locks that he'd been able to take the drink, and the second he'd done it, the moment he'd freed himself, his dad had given him the saddest, most mournful look. With tears dripping down his dad's cheeks, both he and the Gatorade had vanished.

Sam had nudged him several times, saying everything was going to be all right and to stay awake. He wasn't tired, though. He was homesick and thirsty, that's all.

"Will, answer me, please!"

Will swiveled his head around, finding Sam's soot-covered face. The kid's dry, chapped lips had cracked in the sun, and his flushed arms were tight with sunburn. He looked shriveled and tired, and his chest rattled with every breath he took. Sam jogged his shoulder, sending jolts of pain into his hands.

Will hissed, swallowed before he spoke. "M'here. Shuddup…stop. My han's hurt. Was jus' nappin', jeez."

"M'sorry. I'm sorry, Will. Don't g'back t'sleep, please!" Sam said with a throaty growl.

"Wh'time is it?" Will blinked at the sun. It hadn't moved since the last time he'd checked.

"Watch is on your wrist," Sam said with listless disinterest.

"Oh yeah." Will attempted to zero in on it the display, but the numbers wouldn't stop twisting and spinning long enough for him to read it. He gave up and looked at the sky again. "Guess it's sometime in the afternoon."

"Yeah. Dad'll be here any time, now."

"Yeah." He dipped his head, his heavy lids slipping shut. He heard bells ringing somewhere nearby. "Hear that?"

"What?"

"Ice cream truck."

"Stay awake, Will."

"I am."

And so they sat like that, thirst rolling over them, one wave after another. Sometimes Sam would say something to him. Sometimes he'd encourage Sam. Sometimes Sam'd talk to his brother or to his dad. One time, out of the blue, he laughed uproariously, stopping cold as if someone'd hit an off switch, and gone right back to hiding from the sun, head tucked into his chest.

"Y'okay there, Sammy?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah." And that was it. Sam returned to his muttered conversations and Will fell back to dreaming about picking locks for Gatorade.

Moments or hours later Will heard a splash in the distance, and he opened his eyes, pointing in his excitement.

Sam pressed his arm down. "Whud are y'doin'? There's nothin' there."

Will looked at Sam, thinking the kid'd lost his mind. He lifted his throbbing hand again, motioning to the shimmering lake in the distance. "Hah! Nothing there? See the lake? Sammy? See it?"

Sam followed Will's bandaged hand. He sighed. "It's a mirage, Will. M'teacher says it's light bouncing off hot air near the ground. It's not real."

Will shook him off. "It's a lake. C'mon! Mom, Dad and Mace are right there—" Will's legs crumbled the moment he stood, and he fell onto his back, slid down the rocky bank, dragging pebbles and sand with him. When he swung his arms out for balance, pain exploded through them. Everything came to a fizzling stop about thirty feet away. He heard the swish of more crumbling earth as Sam slid down after him. Will turned to the lake, his attention riveted on its rippling waters. He ignored the jagged pain in his hands and crawled toward it.

"Will, stop! It's not real. It's just a mirage. It's not real." Sam whimpered and held onto him until they both sunk into the powdery earth.

"Mom and Dad. They're there! Mace—she's right there!"

"S'not real," Sam said again. "They're not real. You're hallucinating or something."

Will's eyes darted back to his family smiling and waving fleetingly before their images fluttered and disappeared. "But—" he stammered, "—but it looked real. It felt so real." Will's voice cracked, brittle with smoke and grief and desperation. His chest hitched and he coughed ashy grit from his lungs. "Don' wanna lose 'em. They're all I got."

Sam snatched the strap of Will's backpack and pulled him into a hug. "You got me." The words caught in the boy's throat as he clung to his big brother. "You still got me, okay?"

Will leaned forward, his head lolling against Sam's shoulder, collecting himself. "Yeah…'kay Sammy. Thanks."

"C'mon," Sam said, getting him moving. "Le's g'back to the rock. Can see Dad comin' better from there. M'sure he's on the way right now."

"Yeah, sure."

With that, they made the long ascent to their sandy rock, the punishing sun beating them down the whole way.

**i**

John took another long drink, dousing his head and neck with what remained. He couldn't get enough water into him, not after the marathon Sweat Ceremony, not after the scorching day in the canyon. On the open desert, it had to have been worse. He needed to get this done and find his boys. They had a few days of fuel left for the generator, but he'd told them he would be back yesterday. They'd be expecting him.

Ever since the medicine man had told him something or someone had blocked his ability to sense the boys, John had pressed Chickapanagie to perform the ritual as soon as possible. The Havasupai man had agreed, but it'd still taken several hours to gather everyone and make the final preparations.

Chickapanagie had pulled him aside and explained how the Sacred Ritual would work. It sounded insane—more than that—it sounded impossible—and reckless. At this point, though, John had no other option, so he prayed Chickapanagie knew what he was doing and that they could remove the spell from Dean, no matter how fucknut crazy the method sounded.

And so he stood there, amidst the crowd, outfitted in one of the finely-woven, intricately-beaded robes of the Havasupai people, stripes of wet, red clay running up and down his cheeks and chin. The others wore similar dress, and they stamped the ground, here and there, warming up for battle.

They took their places around a large bonfire situated on a sandbar below the Havasu Falls. Despite the thundering water, John plainly heard the roar of flames wreathing around wild juniper logs.

He set the empty water jug on the ground and ran his hands through his wet hair, pacing back and forth, waiting for things to start.

As sunset fanned across the sky in bursts of red and orange, Yunosi and Tlootha strode up, arriving last. They informed Chickapanagie the area had been cordoned off from tourists; they were ready to begin. The shaman nodded and held up his hands, silencing his tribe.

The normally light-hearted medicine man addressed the assembly with a grave voice. "Soon we will begin our Sacred War Song and do battle for the young pawn, Dean Winchester. Many years ago the pawn's father fought for _The People of the Blue-Green Water_ and returned our sons and daughters to us. Now we must balance the mighty wheel and fight the Winged Ones. We must force them to return the pawn to his father. Be wary. Be brave. Tochopa's Warriors know we are coming and will seek to stop us. But we will be victorious. Let us begin."

Turning to John the medicine man held out his hand. "Give me the talisman, John."

"What do you need it for?" John asked, holding it tight in his fist.

"Focus for the ritual. The magic will be concentrated within it, and when I speak the banishing spell it will act as a conduit to your son, freeing him. But I must first ask for its cooperation."

John snorted. "Ask a piece of brass for its cooperation?"

"Yes, Johnny. It is as alive as you and I. Open your heart."

John blew out a dubious breath. "Whatever you say, chief." He passed Dean's amulet to him but raised a finger in warning. "Don't ruin it. My son'll want it back."

A smile crinkled Chickapanagie's sparkling eyes as he touched the amulet with reverent fingers. "It is as strong as the bones of the earth, and it loves your son, greatly. It will not break."

Looping the amulet around one hand, Chickapanagie passed his other palm over it, chanting vibrant words that buzzed deep within John's core.

"_Han gwedáy yimá ìjyayyu! Nyach 'swa:di a dála nyach he:dk ó'o bay inya'a ja wvk Tochopa-ay gwéjadi."(1)_

He pressed the amulet first to his lips and then to his heart. Cupping it in his hands, he held it to the sky, chanting the words a second time. Finishing, he motioned to Tlootha to light the pipes, and the air soon filled with the robust smell of tobacco and dried peyote.

When Tlootha brought the pipe to John, he hesitated. "Do not worry, John. I must fly tomorrow, so I will keep my feet planted firm on mother earth tonight. I will not smoke, but I will watch over you. Chickapanagie will guide you through your journey. He'll stand beside you in battle. Together you will save your son just as you both saved me. I have no fear."

John took a stabling breath. He didn't have near the kid's confidence. But he accepted the pipe, taking a long draw from it. He also chewed the peyote button Tlootha insisted upon, explaining it was necessary for his journey.

Once everyone finished smoking, the War Song began.

Unlike the subdued, monotony of the chant that'd accompanied the Sweat Ceremony, the War Song had the ground beneath them quivering with each syllable. John's heart leapt as the staccato words tattooed themselves onto his bones, vibrating deep in his spine, exciting every nerve and cell. The steady drumbeat and whisk of rattles lent structure to the chaotic whoops and caws.

The tribe stormed around the bonfire in a dynamic show of power. These sonsabitches meant business. Spirit or God or lowly man—it didn't matter—John knew any enemy facing this kinetic spectacle would shit himself. These gentle-natured, docile peach farmers had transformed into a terrifying force, forging a supercell of energy that spread throughout the canyon. Every grass blade, every pebble, leaf and water droplet sprang to life, glimmering with multi-colored auras.

The Dance and Song went on, unabated. By the time the stars peeked through the last shreds of sunset, John had little sense of his own body. He stood silent and still beside the medicine man, his energies, his life force melded to that of the tribe's. Chickapanagie stomped his feet in time to the Song, holding the amulet in one hand and a beaded cottonwood staff in the other. With his arms stretched skyward and his body shuddering with every beat, a golden aura began to emanate from him, whirling around him in a cyclone of living light.

As the full moon crested the canyon, a rainbow formed from the billowing mist of the waterfall. John turned to point it out to Chickapanagie, but he stopped short, witnessing a pure, white light welling from his friend's eyes, nose…ears.

John's mouth fell open at the sight, but before he could do or say anything, he heard a high-pitched resonance, like wet fingers on a crystal glass. The sound grew in volume and intensity, flooding his ears, overtaking the wild thump and screech of the War Song. At the same time, the atoms of John's solid body rearranged, transforming him into molten radiance. Chickapanagie had warned him earlier, preparing him for this, but it still came as a shock. With a static pop, John's soul spilled forth from his body, floating free. But before he could adjust or find his bearings, a magnetic force drew him in, and he found himself torpedoing through a black vacuum.

He was dying…or being born…he didn't know which, and he wasn't sure the distinction mattered. As he traveled, his life unspooled before him, every thought, every deed playing out—and others' lives as well—his kids', his wife's, his friends' and on and on until he became a black hole of unfathomable knowledge, crushed to a pinpoint until his mind broke and he knew and saw no more.

**i**

Will's mind wandered far, far afield. He sat on the edge of a blue swimming pool, face to face with his mom and dad and Macy—even Sammy and his dad were there. Each one smiled and waved, laughed at him as they splashed water about, cooling themselves in the hot desert evening. He wanted to do the biggest cannonball into that pool, drink the whole thing dry, but a whimper at his side pulled him from his beautiful dream and into a painful, unending nightmare.

He opened his eyes to a red world, the warbling half-disk of the sun straddling the horizon. Something shifted at Will's side, and he looked over to find Sam sitting on the rock next to him. The kid's tongue had gotten so dry he'd stopped talking a couple of hours ago. He sat, staring at nothing, teetering to and fro, his eyes rolling every time he blinked, like a puppy falling asleep in spite of his best effort to stay awake.

Will started to say something to him, make sure he was all right, but the boy's eyes rolled back one final time and stayed there. Sam's body went slack and he pitched forward summersaulting off the stone and down the rocky slope.

With a hoarse shout, Will lurched after him, following in his wake. Sam skidded down until he came to a boneless stop, legs spread eagle, arms flopping at his sides.

"Saaam!" The word came out garbled, but a surge of adrenaline bought Will a few moments of mental clarity. He settled Sam's head into his lap, paying no attention to the pain in his hands, shaking him. "Saaam, wake up!"

"Aaghhh…" The boy moaned, his lashes fluttering but not opening.

"C'mon, Sammy, wake up!"

"Nuhhgh…"

Will's voice cracked with emotion. "No! Don' you do that, Sam. Don' you tell me _no_. Don't you give up! C'mon, your dad is gonna be here anytime. You said so."

"Nuhhh…"

"Yes he is!" Will shook the boy again, but he didn't respond. "Sam! Sammy!"

Will's eyes flew wildly about, searching the horizon for any sign of the car. But he saw nothing except the purpling desert splayed before him as the first stars twinkled overhead. Sam was going to die, right here, right now if Will couldn't find a way to help him.

And just like that, he remembered—as if someone planted the thought in his tired brain or whispered it in his ear—he remembered. And to think, he'd been practically sitting on it the whole time.

Easing Sam onto the ground, Will extended his sunburnt arms and tore off his backpack. With numb, shaking fingers he unzipped the pouch and upended the contents in front of him: a mound of army-men, an empty Funyuns bag, a few candy wrappers, a set of keys—and a half-full bottle of water.

Will huffed out a breath when he saw it, remembering every word, every second of his afternoon spent with Macy by the river. Mesmerized, he watched his sister's necklace waft against the currents as he cupped the bottle in his bandaged hands and gave it a swish. There wasn't much there—enough maybe to keep one of them alive if help arrived soon. Will remembered learning in Cub Scouts that sipping tiny amounts of water did not ease serious dehydration. So, splitting it would do neither of them any good. It was all or nothing—one or the other, but not both.

Will licked his dry lips. Faced with an unspeakable choice, he tore his eyes from the water and focused on Sam lying before him.

This was it. He had only to open the bottle and drink what remained, and maybe, just maybe he'd see Macy again. Maybe he'd get to go to the auto show with his dad after all. Surely if Will came home safe, his dad would take the weekend off—if the weekend hadn't already come and gone. Will no longer remembered how long he'd been away. It felt like forever. Maybe his mom would fuss over him and tuck him in like she used to—feed him tomato rice soup and sing _Hey Jude_ to him.

No. Not _Hey Jude_…what was the song she sang? Oh yes, _Angel of the Morning_, that was it. And she always made him chicken noodle soup, not tomato. Still, everything he ever wanted was in that bottle, and his entire heart and soul ached for it.

New thoughts came to him as if dictated. He knew without a shred of doubt, he had two choices. He could drink the water. If he did, he would live and Sam would die. Or, he could give the water to Sam. But if he did, _he _would die. He had to choose one way or the other. No one would ever know or judge him if he took the water for himself. He alone would have to live or die with the consequences of his decision. It was all on him.

He stared at the bottle again. It was all right there: Macy's goofy face, his mom's quirked eyebrow as she scolded him without really scolding him, his dad bent over a '57 Bel Air, teaching him the beauty of classic era fuel injection.

But the water represented everything Sam ever wanted, too. And what made Will's life more important than Sam's? Weren't Sam's hopes and dreams equally as valuable? Did they mean any less because they weren't his? Sam was just a kid. He had his whole life in front of him, and he was hurt and tired and thirsty.

And the kid had big plans. How could he haul himself out of this crazy life, get away from his dad and go to college if Will didn't save him now? And didn't he deserve that? Didn't he at least deserve the chance to try?

But there was more. Right or wrong, logical or not, Will felt an obligation to this kid—to give him an opportunity to do all those things he was destined to do. It was Will's job to get him there, regardless of the price. He couldn't explain why—not even to himself. Just as he couldn't explain how he'd gotten out of those cuffs, he couldn't explain the compulsion he felt, now, to protect the kid at all costs. Will hadn't left Sam to face a fiery death, and he wouldn't leave him to die of thirst in the desert, either. He just wouldn't. He couldn't.

Will weighed the bottle in his hands, glanced at Sam then back to the bottle, his decision made.

"I'm so sorry guys," he said to his family. "I love you all so much."

Without another moment's hesitation, he lifted Sam, cradling the kid in his swollen, tattered arms. He uncapped the bottle, pressed it to Sam's lips, and let the water trickle into his mouth.

At the first drop, Sam's eyes bugged open in shocked, mindless need, and he sucked at the bottle.

"Easy kiddo. Slow. Take it slow." Will drizzled more water into his mouth, not wasting a single, precious ounce despite Sam's thrashing arms as he struggled to get the bottle tilted higher.

Will batted his hands away, taking his time, feeding Sam bit by bit until nothing remained but the rattling beads at the bottom of the bottle. He tossed the empty container down the hill where it rolled out of sight.

"You're gonna be okay, Sammy. Everything's gonna be all right."

He held the sleeping boy in his arms, sad and wistful but at peace with his decision. As time passed, Will's mental acuity disintegrated, and he soon forgot ever having made such a choice in the first place. His brain swarmed with the shadowy images of his loved ones wandering close, offering him drinks and fruit.

Moonlight shimmered over the desert when she appeared, walking toward him, carrying two glasses of lemonade. Her smile lit the world brighter than the noon sun.

"Mom…"

She beamed at him. Her cascading blonde hair brought a lump to his throat, despite knowing his mom's hair was short and dark. It was confusing, but it was right, too. And in the end, it didn't matter. She was here, and she had him, and everything was going to be all right.

Kneeling, she pressed a loving hand to his cheek. "You are my little angel," she cooed to him, a tender smile playing on her lips.

At that, Will smiled in return, leaning into her caress with a contented sigh.

**i**

John's body thrummed like a plucked piano string, and he sat on his knees, unseeing, unthinking until the vibrations slowed enough for him to perceive things beyond his quivering soul.

When his sight returned he saw only white—everywhere. The room or area or expanse, he wasn't sure what to call it, had no features, no furniture, no identifiable traits. It just—was.

He studied his hands, or what his mind built to represent the concept of hands. They appeared solid—beyond solid, in fact. Every scar, callus, and hair follicle came into sharp focus, and he could identify the finest details and flaws his eyes never caught before. The bite wound had vanished, and he flexed his hand as he studied it.

"Ah, there you are, Johnny. Very strong and brave of you to break free. I knew you could do it."

John stiffened and twisted around, seeing his friend standing behind him.

"Th'fuck?"

The medicine man laughed. "Eloquent as always." He offered John his hand, Dean's amulet looped around his wrist. "Come."

John bristled, "Come? Come where? There's nothing here!"

The medicine man smiled and lifted the amulet, casting his arm toward a window that had opened up in the sea of white. Together they wordlessly made their way to the vignette-like portal. John wasn't sure what the hell it was—a window, or screen, or fanciful vision maybe. Whatever it was, it provided a spectacular view of the Havasu Canyon flooded in moonlight. A speck of firelight below marked where the tribe continued their Song and Dance around the bonfire. John heard the faint rattles and drums, detected the muted shouts and brays of the singers. Even a dimension away, the Song intimidated and promised destruction to all who tried to thwart them. Several misty tendrils of energy spiraled away from the dancers, connecting to both John and Chickapanagie, allowing the travelers to harness the tribe's power for their task.

"They are holding us steady. But we must not linger too long here."

John's body continued to pulse with each beat of the Song. He glanced above the canyon, following the sprawl of the desert to the horizon, noticed a troubling curl of smoke rising toward the moon.

"Where are we?" John asked, uncomprehending.

Chickapanagie grinned, every bit his spritely self for the moment. "Somewhere over the rainbow, Dorothy."

"Over the _what,_ now?" Of the myriad of experiences and stimulants John was busy processing, Chickapanagie's humor was low on the list.

The medicine man snorted and waved his hand about him, his demeanor sobering. "Our souls are _In Between_. This is where we would wait for our ancestors to guide us to the _Lands Beyond_, but we are not dead. Living souls do not come here, at least not often, but this is where we must stand and fight for your son. Just as I held the demon at bay within Tlootha while you sent it to the underworld, you must now trap the Warrior while I dispel his magic." He handed John the amulet. "Take this and use it to hold him. I sense he is not far away."

At that moment, the ground rumbled beneath his feet, and John grasped the leather strap, weaving it through his fingers. A high-pitched wail drowned out the tribal heartbeat below them. The splintering vibration scored like a white-hot dagger through his skull and his vision blurred.

"Nnghahh!"

"_Inya'a gwéjadi jo:vk!"_(2) With a few mumbled words from Chickapanagie, his cottonwood staff kindled with light, surrounding the area in a protective membrane that allowed their naked souls to withstand the shrill arrival of the hellspawn coming for them.

"Jesus Christ," John hissed, squinting in pain as a crystalline figure descended, standing no more than ten feet from them. John could make out few details, the light issuing from the creature shone too bright to see definition. He perceived humanoid features, arms, legs, and a head. But he noted animalistic traits as well, a large lion mane haloing the head and six serrated wings stretching out like liquid obsidian. They flapped discordantly, each wing a brash, autonomous entity, curling and uncurling, whipping up random bursts of hurricane-force wind.

Hatred welled within John at this thing—this creature who had dared to harm his boy. With a feral growl, he lunged at it, fists flying. But before his punch found its target, the spirit flicked a finger, sending both John and Chickapanagie tumbling head over ass. The medicine man woofed and shook his head to clear it, scrabbling for his staff.

John lurched up, bristling, legs stanced for a fight. "You sonofabitch! You keep your filthy hands off my boy!"

He snarled when he heard what sounded like smug laughter in reply. Charging headlong toward the thing again, he got to within a few feet of it before John went soaring through the air without ever having made contact. And John knew he'd only been able to get as close as he did because the creature enjoyed toying with him, enjoyed the sadistic sport of it.

Chickapanagie rose to his feet, leaning on his staff. "Now would be a good time to hold him, Johnny."

John spun toward Chickapanagie, panting. "Hold him? I can't even get close! How am I supposed to…"

"Fight with your fists and you will lose. Fight with your heart and you will have him. Fight for your son, not for vengeance."

John's third attempt ended before it began. Before he could find his feet, the creature approached them. It unsheathed a flaming sword as it strode up, poised it over its head, ready to scythe through them. John had no time to think, he instinctively reacted, raising his hand to shield the blow, the amulet dangling from his fingers.

"_Va:m Jóhnach!"_(3) Chickapanagie slipped into his native tongue.

"Dean!" The word flew from John's mouth as the sword descended. With that the amulet burst into light, the horned head blazing like a supernova. John gazed in wonder as the light took shape, twisting and solidifying as it enveloped Tochopa's Warrior where it stood, hand frozen in mid-stroke.

"Holy fuck…" John gasped with breathy awe.

From somewhere behind him, he heard Chickapanagie rise. "That's it, Johnny! You got him!"

John positioned his arm, holding the amulet aloft as Chickapanagie intoned the spell. John didn't know the Pai language, but he didn't have to. The gist was plain, the demand absolute. Tearing his eyes away from the trapped creature, John looked at Chickapanagie, his nut-brown face shining like a beacon as he chanted the command.

"_Namákk! Gwèjadi a Tochopa. Nya che thigómk ge misma jiláyk a nyimsávk gwede. Gwa wway'i miswa. E vk. Nyájich __Havasubáychyùjiyu__. Nyach githyé, Chickapanagie-ye. Nyach gage k!"_(4)

A shockwave of light blew past them as the medicine man uttered the final word. The creature remain standing before them, black pinions arched high. John could have sworn the damn thing served them with an arrogant smirk. An air of self-righteous disdain emanated from it, and, as if flicking an ant off a piece of coveted fruit, it aimed a mote of celestial energy at the medicine man's solar plexus. Chickapanagie coughed and doubled over in pain, holding his stomach.

"You bastard!" John seethed at the thing, drawing its attention. It cut toward him, gave him a casual shrug of its shoulders and crooked a finger in his direction. Before John could respond, pain exploded in his head, and his mind and soul went completely blank.

**i**

Sam shivered in the moonlight, unsure what had pulled him from his dreams. He didn't remember falling asleep. Maybe he hadn't. Maybe he'd fainted. Either way, he felt better for the rest. His mind was clearer. His thick tongue wouldn't let him swallow properly, his head throbbed, and his chest was near useless, but he was better. He was alive.

Dean laid next to him, unmoving, eyes rolled deep in his head. They must have passed out at some point and both tumbled down the slope. His brother's gaunt face clung to bone, his lips and nose having thinned from severe dehydration. Dean's smoky lungs fought a desperate battle for every rapid, shallow breath, and his heart labored under his jutting ribs.

"Dean!" Sam cried his brother's name. "Dean wake up, please. Dad'll be here any—" He couldn't finish. He swallowed a sob, knowing he was full of shit. Unless his dad came in the next hour, he'd be too late. Dean didn't have much time. And if he didn't come, Sam'd never forgive the man. Never.

His eyes darted to Dean's empty backpack, a pile of green army-men and some wrappers scattered next to it. Confused, he picked up a few army men, passing them through his fingers.

"Dean!" He gripped his brother's shoulders and gave them a violent shake. Dean never made a sound. Anger and grief and an ocean of regret rushed through him. "You should'a drank water in the cabin, Dean! You were stubborn, and now look what's happened. Why'd you refuse to drink when you had the chance? Why'd you do that, huh? How am I gonna live with that? I tried and tried to get you to drink!"

Sam stopped, laid his head on Dean's chest, crying dryly as he listened to the diminishing drumbeat of his brother's heart and the rattle of his lungs. He expected the flutters to stop any moment, and so he prayed.

He prayed Dean would wake. He prayed his dad would come back. He prayed that Dean wouldn't die believing he was Will Darnell, without knowing how much he meant to Sam. He prayed that if he did die, that he would learn the truth in whatever afterlife there might be. If there was a God, surely he'd let Dean remember he'd been a Winchester, the best big brother any kid could hope to have. He prayed until he lost all words and simply lay there, waiting for his brother's last breath. His heavy eyes slipped closed and his mind drifted for minutes or hours—he had no clue which.

When light struck his eyelids, he thought morning had arrived at first, but it was too bright, _too white_, for sunshine. Coming back to himself, he opened his eyes to see a flash of frosty energy surrounding his brother. Sam wasn't sure if his mind was playing tricks on him or not. He'd seen a lot of things today that hadn't been real. But it was there, a fine weave of crystal light cocooning Dean.

His brother must have felt it, too, because Dean reacted, squirming and bucking against it.

"Dean! What is it?" Sam shook his brother. "What's happening?"

Dean's eyes rocketed open, pupils dilated to full, mouth slack. He choked in a shocked breath as the scintillating light roiled around him, his body writhing with each ripple.

"Please, Dean! Don't!" Sam cried as Dean shuddered in his arms, the light growing brighter and more intense. A sharp whine emanated from the light, becoming so intense that Sam clutched his ears in pain. When he thought he could take no more, the light crazed into a thousand particles, peeling away from Dean before bursting outward in a supersonic shockwave that pulsed across the desert.

Total silence descended as Dean collapsed onto the desert floor with a sigh.

"Dean?"

Sam watched his brother's chest, waiting for him to inhale. He didn't.

"Dean?"

No response, no movement, no flutter of life. Nothing.

"DEAN!"

_**TBC**_

**i**

**Pai Translations:**

_(1)Goodly amulet, if you will dance with us, I invoke the energy of a million suns, and with The Great Father's power, we will fight Tochopa's Warriors together._

_(2)Spirit of the Sun, please aide us!_

_(3)Johnny, now!_

_(4)Begone, spirit of Tochopa. Your dream shatters and the white pawn is now free. Hear the Song of The People and obey. I am the medicine man, Chickapanagie. My magics are strong._


	7. The Board is Set

**A/N: Before I close, I want to thank my betas for all of their assistance. Thanks to Emmessann for her penetrating questions and for always making me think. Thanks to my darling Numpty for coming in and pinch-hitting in these last chapters. She saved you all from several typos (any that remain are all my fault). And thanks to my Aramis loving buddy, Sue Pokorny, who accompanied me on this journey from beginning to end. I thank her also for creating such a gorgeous poster for me on AO3 and Live Journal. These women are awesome!**

**A/N: Thanks to every single person who read this story…and especially to those who selflessly went above and beyond and left a review. I cannot thank you guys enough for that. **

**A/N: Thanks to Julefor, marycarmen, and all guests past, present and future who have left or will leave reviews. Since I cannot thank you in person, I hope you accept this as my thanks. You all rock.**

**A/N: Assorted Pai Language translations are listed at the end of the chapter.**

_**J'adoube**_

**Chapter Seven: The Board is Set**

"Stay with me, John."

A figure haloed in golden light fluttered before him then winked out as he closed his lids against the scoring pain in his head.

"You with me, John Winchester?"

Hearing the gentle voice, John swallowed and opened his eyes again, taking time to focus on Yunosi as she smoothed his brow, her head wreathed in the flickering bonfire behind her.

He guided her hand away from his hammering forehead. "What happened?" Crooking his neck, he peered about him.

"Be still, John. You must rest. Allow your soul to find purchase after its journey."

"What fuck…what?" John sprang up, groggy and disoriented, but ready for a fight. Yunosi pressed an arm against him, trying to stop his addled charge.

"Don't John, please. You are not all here, yet."

John's head bobbled as he searched Yunosi's face. He remembered—remembered the glowing spirit attacking them, remembered Chickapanagie uttering the banishing spell, right before the creature had sent juiced bolts at them, and that was it. He remembered nothing more. He raised his hand and found the amulet twined about his fingers. "Where's…" His glance darted around until he spotted Tlootha and several others gathered around a figure on the ground. John startled up on coltish legs, swaying and staggering as he barreled through the crowd, falling to his knees at Tlootha's side.

"Easy _Dála_, don't move until you have fully anchored yourself," the Havasupai man urged his father, his young face full of care and worry. Chickapanagie grasped his torso, his breathing wet and shallow. "Tell me where you are hurt, _Dála_."

"I'm all right." The medicine man winced, adjusted his hand over his abdomen and wiped a daub of blood from his lips. "The Winged One sucker-punched me, but I will rise again—you know—if you'd stop hovering and let me rise, _Humé_." Chickapanagie grinned through his pain, slapped his son's shoulder, getting him to move back. John and Tlootha each took an arm and helped the older man sit.

Chickapanagie stretched his torso, twisting this way and that, trying to find a comfortable position. Taking a deep breath, he patted the hunter's face.

"Ahhh, I see you made it back in one piece, Johnny. Did anyone ever tell you your soul glows pretty?"

"Shut up." John gave the man a worried smile. "Let's get you off the ground and resting somewhere more comfortable."

Chickapanagie squeezed John's arm. "I have dispelled the magic tethering your son." He coughed and gripped his stomach.

"_Dála_…" Tlootha kept a hand on his father's shoulder.

The shaman took a deep breath. "But with the magic removed, I sense your children are in grave peril, especially the white pawn." He held up a hand in warning. "I see fire and ash. I sense great thirst. You must get to them as soon as you can. Time is running out."

A storm of adrenaline surged through John's body as he recalled the window in the _white room_ and the strand of smoke rising from the desert. He noticed the moon high overhead. With a ten-mile hike and a long drive ahead of him, it'd be hours before he reached his kids.

"Sonofabitch. I'm sorry. I have to go. I have to go _now_."

Chickapanagie gripped his son with one hand and his staff with the other, rising gingerly to his feet. "Tlootha will fly you there. The pawns need their father. There is no time to waste on travel. Go, both of you."

"How can I leave you, _Dála_? You are wounded." Tlootha stood firm by his father.

The Havasupai man placed a hand against his son's cheek, his eyes shining. "Yunosi will help me to my _hawa_." He wiped sweat beads from his brow and turned to John. "It is done. My debt is repaid. Love your sons well, _nya nuwa_." He lifted his palm to his mouth and pressed it over his heart. "And try not to be such an asshole, huh?" He wagged a playful finger at John.

The medicine man leaned against Yunosi for support. "Come _nya misi:'ye_, help an old man." The girl put her arms around Chickapanagie as the crowd parted to let them pass.

Tlootha stood anxious and still as his father limped away. He spun toward John, fighting his worry. "Come John. Do not fear. I will get you to your children. Follow me."

**i**

"Dean!" Sam shook his brother. Getting no response, he fought against a swell of panic. He whimpered before _stowing his shit_, as his dad would have told him, and set to work, allowing his training to take over his actions.

His dad had taught Sam CPR last fall. He'd been pissed at the time, his father forcing him to miss a big soccer game while he spent hours in training. He was grateful for it now, though. He tilted Dean's head back, listened for breath, and, finding none, he gave his brother two breaths and felt for his pulse—nothing.

"Dean…please!" He flattened his hands and pumped his brother's chest thirty times before giving his brother two more breaths. As he started the second round of chest compressions, Dean choked and swallowed a gasping breath.

Sam's body flooded with relief and the world spun around him like a teacup ride. Time blinked and stuttered, and he found himself on his butt, having no memory of having fallen. He battled for balance, rose to his knees and resituated himself over Dean. His brother's brows pinched as he coughed and gagged. Sam eased him onto his side, making sure his airway remained clear.

"You're all right, Dean. Keep breathing. Oh, God…please keep breathing!" Sam rubbed Dean's bare back, massaging it with trembling hands. Every muscle in Sam's body quaked with fear and relief.

"Dean? Can you hear me? Can you open your eyes?" Sam worked to stimulate his brother, but he got no response. He sat there for some minutes, doing nothing but watching the rise and fall of Dean's chest, terrified it'd stop.

So intent upon this task, he never noticed the approaching lights. It wasn't until he heard the unmistakable whir of propeller blades in the distance that he glanced at the sky.

Following the sound to the north, he saw the blinking lights of a small helicopter, its search light panning the desert floor as it moved in their direction.

"Here! We're here!" Bounding to his feet, his legs buckled and he fell onto his ass again, so he screamed and waved his arms, praying they'd see them in the moonlight.

Whether it saw them or not, the helicopter flew right at them and slowed to a stop, hovering above the burnt-out cabin. The rotor blades whipped up a blizzard of dirt around them, stinging Sam's skin. He tucked his head down and bent over Dean, trying to protect him from further injury as the helicopter landed and cut its engine.

When the wind stopped, Sam chanced a peek. The doors opened and two men in traditional Native American dress jumped to the ground. One of them ran to the smoldering cabin.

"Sam! Dean!" His dad's voice rang shrill in the night.

"Dad!" The desert swallowed Sam's small, broken voice. He coughed, tried again, but his dad's rising horror and panic drowned out his words.

John circled the cabin, frantic. "Sam! Boys!"

"Dad!" Sam called. He lurched up and staggered a few steps before falling into the dust. His dad must have seen the movement in his peripheral vision, because he called to the pilot.

"Tlootha! Over there!" The two men sprinted up the rocky embankment.

"Christ…" His dad breathed the word, catching sight of Dean lying shirtless, covered with soot.

"Dad…sorry…" Sam choked the words out, trying to clear his throat. "Knocked over the lamp. Dean's bad, Dad. Wouldn't drink before the fire an' we had no water today. His han's are cut. He broke the window so we could get out. He's dyin' Dad. Help him, please."

John made no sign he heard him. He scooped Dean into his arms. "Son. Son!"

"He stopped breathing a few minutes ago. There was a bright light and he just stopped."

His father's eyes swept over Dean, listening for breath, checking his pulse. Finding it, he lifted him. "I got him. C'mon, move out, Sam." Sam strove to find his feet, but they went out from under him again. John startled, as if seeing him for the first time. "Oh Jesus, Sam. I'm sorry. I'll be right back."

"I have him, John." The helicopter pilot lifted him into his arms, and everything started to take on a surreal, dreamlike quality. Sam's ears echoed with a hollow buzz and his spine tingled. They'd been saved. Their dad was there—neither a hallucination nor a fanciful wish. His dad was there.

The thought tripped around his head and he repeated it aloud. "He's here. He's here."

He remembered the annoying pain in his nose when it hit the man's shoulder—remembered the guy adjusting and shifting under the sudden dead-weight in his arms, but beyond that…nothing.

**i**

His shoes squeaked on the floor as he trotted to the open elevator. The woman holding the door for him pointed to the buttons.

"What floor?" she asked.

"Eight, please." He grinned his thanks and leaned against the side of the car, humming…then singing under his breath:

"_There'll be no strings to bind your hands  
Not if my love can't bind your heart…"_

The woman stepped back and fixed her attention on the display as the elevator slipped past each floor. "That's an oldie," she said idly.

"…But a goodie," he agreed and continued singing under his breath.

"_There's no need to take a stand  
For it was I who chose to start…"_

The bell dinged. "…Oops…that's me!" He winked as the door hissed open. The woman gave him a small, amputated smile in return, pushing the button for her floor several times, encouraging the door to close on the off-putting man. Shrugging, he dusted his shoulder and gave her a tip of his head.

Strutting down the hallway, he hopped a step here and there, light on his feet as he continued singing:

"_Just call me angel of the morning, Angel  
Just touch my cheek before you leave me, baby…"_

He marched around a corner, passing the nurse's station.

"_Just call me angel of the morning, Angel  
Then slowly turn away…from me…"_

He took another corner and slowed, surprised to see the door to the ICU guarded. He walked up to the tidy, black vessel standing there.

"Uriel? What are you doing here?"

Uriel pointed his steepled fingers at him, his back stiff, face aloof. "Michael sent me. He's not pleased, Zachariah. He wants a full report."

"Not pleased?" Zachariah staggered back a step. "What do you mean? He should be thrilled."

"You've been playing a dangerous game. You let two humans trap you, not to mention your little experiment scathed both vessels, nearly killing them."

Zachariah waved a dismissive hand. "Nonsense. They're fine. I had everything under control the entire time." He looked past Uriel's shoulder into the room. "Where is dear, old Dad?"

"He's down the hall with his other son at the moment. He's been splitting his time between them. Don't change the subject. Was it really necessary to take things this far?"

"Absolutely." Zachariah stood firm. "We've collected all the information we need, made all necessary adjustments to ensure victory. Both you and Michael will thank me for this. Every piece on the board is set." He clapped his hand on Uriel's shoulder. "Come with me, I'll show you."

Together the angels strode into the ICU where the attending nurse moved in, about to confront them. Zachariah smiled and pressed a finger to his lips. The woman stopped, blinked and went back to fiddling with her charts, the encounter forgotten, their presence unnoticed.

They took their places, one on each side of Dean's bed. The boy's hands and forearms lay swathed in bandages. Tubes and wires ran from machines into various entry points on his body. Zachariah placed a hand on his forehead, taking his own readings. There was nothing that wouldn't heal with time—nothing physical, anyway.

"So did he pass the test?" Uriel asked.

"Oh my, yes," Zachariah said, beaming. "He _surpassed_ it. Removed from his environment, stripped of his memories—loyalties planted indelibly elsewhere—he _still_ chose to give up his life to protect Sam."

"So?"

Zachariah huffed, boggling at the obtuse angel. "_So_, we know he'll sacrifice himself when it matters most. If he'll do it under these circumstances, imagine what he'll do with his memory and fidelity restored to full. There's nothing he won't do to keep his brother breathing. There's no price he won't pay if anything were to ever happen." He swirled his finger. "You get my drift?"

The angel chewed over his words, the light dawning, "Ohhh…"

"Yes, _Ohhh_…" Zachariah nodded. "Call this a dry run, if you will. And it worked like a charm. It's one thing to create a vessel, it's something else to calibrate an apocalypse. What good will it do for Michael to have the perfect vessel if events do not unfold in the proper sequence, resulting in his need for a vessel in the first place? We need more than a vessel. We need prophecy fulfilled. We need a _Righteous Man_—a man who will play his part—his _whole_ part."

Uriel tipped his head in begrudging respect. "So, all of this was to be sure he would—"

"Yes. And now we know, don't we? Michael can rest easy. He'll do what we want when we want it. It's in his nature, he won't be able to _not_ do it. It is a glorious day, Uriel. Paradise is ours to rule."

"Just so long as he says _yes_ afterwards, of course."

Zachariah snorted. "Well, _that_ won't be a problem. Look at him. See how much he cares for his brother and for other people? He'll be on board with that part of our plan, rest assured. Who wouldn't be honored to act as vessel for the mightiest of God's angels?"

"You're a genius, Zachariah. Michael will be pleased to know his vessel is ready."

Zachariah pursed his lips, nodding with pride. "Trust me, I have this all under control."

"Well, we both know that's not true," Uriel folded his arms, his chest puffed. "The shaman managed not only to trap you, but to dispel your illusion. A human, Zachariah…" He said the word with distaste, "…a _human_. Don't tell me you let it happen, either, because we both know the truth."

The angel jutted his chin, balanced on the balls of his vessel's heels. "I admit I was surprised by the human's strength. I didn't expect it. But since I was about to change Dean back anyway, I didn't thwart it. Still, we can't have that kind of power running amok, either." His eyes lit with mischief. "So, I've taken steps to ensure it doesn't happen again."

"Oh really?"

Zachariah shrugged, wiggled his jazz hands. "Stage Four stomach cancer. It is one of my specialties, after all. I can't have him gumming the works, now, can I? He knows who we are and where to find us. But that'll be behind us in two months, one week, three days and," he checked his watch, pointing, "forty-one minutes. There. See? I have it all under control. And besides, he just dispelled the illusion from the vessel. I had to put our supporting cast back in place myself."

"The family?"

"Yes indeed. Real people, real lives. Though, and this will interest you, brother—all those fractional adjustments, every minute calculation I had to make in order to insert the vessel into their lives—it made for some interesting variations. Given their druthers, I think they'd have chosen to stay as their altered versions—you know—if they had a say in the matter—which, of course, they don't. No, I've wiped their memories of Dean, recalibrated and restored their lives to their to original factory settings. Still, it's fascinating what the presence of one life can do. Almost makes me want to expand my field of study. A few more experiments could prove entertaining as well as informative." He cocked his head, bobbing it back and forth, considering. "But, another day, I suppose. So much to do in the next fifteen years, who'll have the time?"

"So that's it? Shall I inform Michael the vessel is secure and where we need him to be?"

"Of course. Not only is he secure, he's in better shape than ever. There is but one small adjustment left to make, and for that, I won't have to lift a finger."

"What adjustment?"

"The pièce de résistance. You'll see, brother…you'll see." He smiled like a shark. "Now to get out of this reeking piece of meat. I should have Michael's unending gratitude for wearing this thing as long as I have." Craning his nose away from the human scent, he dusted off his hands. As he did so, Dean's bloodshot eyes opened, swimming with both confusion and recognition.

Michael's young vessel gave his lips a slow lick, brows puckered. "Mr. Adler?"

Zachariah chuckled, extending two fingers and touching them to the vessel's forehead. "Yes Dean, very good. Now, go back to sleep."

With that, the boy slipped into a deep, dreamless slumber. And amid the ruffle of feathers, the angels departed, making ready to shed their vessels and spread their glad tidings throughout Heaven—Paradise was assured.

**i**

John spanned a hand across his forehead, pinching hot, dry lids, kneading his throbbing temples. With the help of Tlootha, he'd gotten the kids to a hospital in Flagstaff, where they'd been treated for dehydration, smoke inhalation, heatstroke and exposure. Dean had the added complication of blood loss from his lacerations and dehydration so severe his heart had stopped again on the gurney. His condition upon arrival had been so critical it had taken several hours of heroic measures before they'd stabilized him enough to move him to the ICU. John had been out of his mind with worry.

Over the past thirty-six hours, however, both boys' conditions had steadily improved, and their prognoses were optimistic. Sam had regained consciousness, but, of course, that came with a price for John. Though tired and weak, the kid had become an annoying patient, demanding he be allowed to sit with Dean. He wasn't in any shape to be doing that, and John had been forced to strong-arm the boy. So, now, on top of all his worry, he had a surly child refusing to talk to him. Lovely.

At least they hadn't been made. No one had questioned his ridiculous tale of having become separated from his kids while hiking and the boys taking shelter in an abandoned cabin until it'd caught fire. There hadn't been so much as a flutter of suspicion. In Sam's room, John had kept the TV on, waiting for updates on Will Darnell's abduction, but he saw nothing. It gave him hope Chickapanagie had fixed Dean, but he wouldn't know for sure until his son woke up—which he stubbornly refused to do.

Cupping the tips of Dean's bandaged fingers, he traced the grain of his boy's fingerprints with his own, waiting for him to wake, John's guts stewing over what'd greet him when he did.

As if in answer to his thought, John felt Dean's fingers stiffen and twitch in his hand. It took a moment for its meaning to register in his exhausted brain, but when it hit him, he bolted up, placing his other hand on the boy's chest.

"Hey, hey kiddo. You with me?"

His son's brows pleated and he brought his arm up to rub his head or face. John stopped him halfway there.

"Don't do that. You're all gauzed up, there, buddy-boy. Don't move your hands."

Opening bleary eyes, Dean stared at John for a long moment. "Dad?"

John's heart thumped in his throat. "The one and only. You know me?"

"Huh?" The kid battled his heavy lids, opening them only to have them fall again.

"Take your time, bud. You're safe."

His son widened his eyes, florescent green swimming with confusion. "Whah?"

"Relax. You're in the hospital, kinda been through the ringer, kiddo. But you're gonna be fine, I promise."

Dean searched John's face. "Dad?"

John nodded, repeated himself. "You know me?"

"Wha' kinna question's 'at?"

"What's your name?"

Licking his lips, Dean lost the thread of the conversation. His lids drooped when he tried a second time to bring his hand up to his face. John stopped him again.

"I said, don't do that, kiddo. C'mon, what's your name?"

Breathing through his nose, he studied John's face, trying to work out the question in his slow brain. "Dean…Winchester."

"Birthdate?"

"Uh, January 24th, 1979." He attempted to rise, but John kept his hand on his chest, stilling him.

"One more…" He lowered his voice. "How do you take down a skinwalker?"

"A _what_?"

"A skinwalker. How do you take one down?"

"Uh…um…" Dean's lips pinched, trying to concentrate. "Uh, you shoot it."

"With…?"

"Silver bullet, bolt or arrow…in the heart."

Tears welled in John's eyes, and a flush of relief and exhaustion flowed through his body, leaving him light-headed. "That's good, Dean. Real good, son."

"What's…?" Dean looked at his father, worried, but then stopped short, the events of the past three months spilling over his face. His chest heaved. "Dad? What the…? Dad?"

"Shhhh, now." John checked on the nurse. Turning to Dean, he pressed a finger to his lips. "Quiet, bud. Stay calm, now. You're all right. We got you back."

One of the machines attached to the boy began wailing, and an army of nurses soon swamped them, pushing John away for several minutes while they examined the teen. By the time they allowed him back to the bedside, Dean lay fighting the effects of whatever light sedative they'd given to calm him.

"Dad?" Tears dripped from his long lashes. "Wha' happened?"

John thought about it a moment, unsure what to tell the kid, unsure what had happened himself. "We don't know. Some supernatural bastard got a hold of you, wiped your memories, planted a bunch of fake ones. It took us a while to track you. I'm sorry, kiddo. I'm sorry we couldn't get to you sooner."

Dean's eyes searched the ceiling, his face a stew of emotions: grief, shame, guilt—others too, maybe. John didn't label those, didn't want to think about it. "It's over now. Let's just stow it and move on, okay?"

Dean gasped. "Sam!" He lurched up again, despite the drugs.

"He's all right, Dean. Shhh…I mean it, now. Stay calm or they're gonna kick me out'a here." John thumbed toward the nurses. "Now, stand down, soldier." Dean immediately complied, though John could see the kid's heart fluttering in his chest. "Sam's gonna be all right. He's got his own room not far away. Once you're out'a the ICU we'll put you together. I'll see to that. And it won't be long until you're both out'a here for good. Play it cool for now."

Tears tracked toward Dean's ears. "I'm sorry, Dad. I'm so sorry." His chest hitched. "I was so awful to you. I was horrible to Sam. I thought those people were…" He didn't finish. He turned away from John, hiding his shame, hiding his grief and loss, too. John's stomach quivered at that, but he said nothing, burying it deep—snuffing it before it could see the light of day. His kid worked to do the same. Dean swallowed, cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, Dad. Do you hate me?"

His child's agonized eyes sought forgiveness and comfort, but how could John give him that without telling him how devastating the whole experience had been? How could he lay that at Dean's feet? How could he relay the fear, the worry, the anger and the terror of having come so close to losing him forever? How does any parent convey that to his kid? What good would it do to tell him how he and Sam had suffered through some of the darkest moments of their lives during their cross-country search for Dean? How could he ever make his son understand how much he loved him, how much he'd missed him, how he couldn't conceive of a world without him in it? He couldn't process any of that shit himself, how could he expect his kid to handle it? So, he didn't tell him any of that. The kid had been through enough. He didn't need that. So John opted to give him some good, old fashioned tough love. It was his default parental position after all, one Dean could relate to—one John felt comfortable with. So, he gave his little soldier what he needed.

John bent his head, studying his son. "I don't hate you kiddo. But you dropped the ball—let something take you, didn't you?"

Dean trembled from head to toe. "Dad—"

John held up his hand. "Did you forget to drop a salt line? We're gonna have to work on that. I gotta be able to trust you'll look after Sam, yeah? You can't do that if you let yourself get taken, now can you? I count on you, Dean. I count on you to take care of him, and you let me down."

"M'sorry, Dad. M'so sorry." Dean batted his head back and forth, squeezing his lids shut.

"What if something had tried to hurt Sam and you weren't there to protect him? I thought you learned your lesson with the Shtriga." The low blow had Dean flinching and John feeling like shit, but he didn't take it back. "We're not gonna have to go _there_ again, are we?"

Dean's eyes boomeranged open. "No! No, Dad." He shriveled in on himself. "Sammy…I—I'm sorry."

"Right. We can't have that, kiddo, so you gotta stay in the game." He hated seeing Dean so crushed, but he knew he'd respond better to this than any sentimental crap they'd both feel awkward for later. He'd bounce back quicker from this than from a maudlin display.

John barreled on, "And Sam tells me you wouldn't eat or drink in the cabin. You wouldn't be in such bad shape now if you'd done what you've been trained to do. You get taken, you eat and drink whatever they give you. You stand no chance of busting free if you got no strength. Sam's in much better shape than you are because he wasn't stupid enough to refuse food and water. You get me?"

Guilt leveled his son, pushing him into the bed. "Okay, Dad. Yeah, okay. My fault. I was stupid. All my fault."

"Cut it out with the guilt. Man up, now." John smiled, stroked his kid's head. "Just need you to learn from your mistakes. Next time you'll know better, we clear?"

Dean nodded his head, leaning into his father's touch like a whipped dog. "Yeah, Dad. Won't let you down again."

"I know you won't, son. This is your job, and you'll do it. You'll look after Sam…protect him no matter what, right?"

"No matter what." Dean promised.

And seeing the humiliation and remorse in his son's eyes, John believed him.

**i**

"Hurry it up, Dean. We gotta get back on the road, you hear me? Bobby's expecting us to meet him in Des Moines tomorrow morning, and it's already 5:00pm now. We're gonna be driving all night as it is. Five minutes. I mean it."

Dean squeezed the newspaper in his anxious hands, twisting it into a tight tube, his intestines gurgling. "Okay, Dad. Wait here."

Opening the door, he stepped onto the sidewalk and took several deep breaths. It had taken a lot of convincing to get his dad to stop, but now that he was here, he wondered what in the hell he'd been thinking.

In the days following his and Sam's rescue, it had become evident no one was searching for him. His dad had told him a dear friend had helped him fix whatever had been done to him, but beyond that his dad refused to discuss the matter—said they never found what had done it and to quit asking. Dean wasn't sure if he believed him or not. Things got worse when the pilot who had helped save them visited, telling them how Dad's friend had fallen gravely ill. After that, his dad had left the hospital and gotten drunk. When he returned, he flat out refused to talk about it anymore. That topic became forever off limits—case closed.

Instead, his dad threw himself into research, checking with both the FBI and the Albuquerque Police Department for open kidnapping and missing persons cases. He found nothing. He'd called the TV station that had filed the report they'd watched in the motel in Gallup, but they had no idea what he was talking about and suggested he might have them confused with another TV station. His dad had found no record of any boy named Will Darnell ever having resided in Albuquerque or New Mexico. Still, his dad went to great lengths to vet the Darnells, making sure they had no history of having a son, before he grudgingly agreed to let Dean come here today. And that had been another battle, because he'd initially given him an emphatic _hell no_ when he'd asked to go see them, but something must have softened his stance on the matter, because he'd come back the next day and told him he'd give him five minutes.

So, there he stood, legs quivering, intestines churning, staring at the house. It had been weeks since he'd seen it, but it felt like a lifetime—or another lifetime. Now that the spell had been broken, the planted memories from his supposed childhood had faded, and he couldn't understand how he'd ever believed them in the first place. That part had been easy to see through, but those real moments he'd spent with the Darnells, those three months of living his life among them—those true memories remained as crisp and sharp as whip wheels on sensitive skin. Those months had been real. He'd really attended his Middle School graduation, had watched his mother get all weepy and fuss because she'd forgotten tissues. He'd really hammed it up in front of his dad's video camera, posing with Macy in his corny cap and gown the school had made him wear. That'd all happened.

He remembered bouncing off the walls like a hyperactive maniac the day his parents had taken him to buy his bicycle, recalled the week spent with _Granny_. He'd really gone to see _Jurassic Park_ on opening day with Macy. He'd played with her every day. All of it—every moment had been real. And a part of him, the shameful part he hid from his Dad and brother, the weak, disloyal, ugly part of him ached for them, still.

"Jesus Christ, Dean. Get the lead out already."

Rousing, Dean squared his shoulders. "Be right back."

Walking to the front door, he noticed his mother's small garden with her beloved apache plume was gone. It didn't appear to have ever been there. He wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans and climbed the steps. Heart racing, he knocked on a strange door with a fancy stained glass window inlaid into it. That was new. Twisting the newspaper in his hand, he saw the drapes in the front window part. Macy's pigtailed head peaked out and darted back. Hearing the pattering thump of someone approaching, Dean lost all moisture in his throat.

His mom opened the door. Well, no—not his mom. _Cheryl_ opened the door, her thick, long hair collected in a barrette and spilling down her back—a departure from the tidy short-crop she'd worn when he'd been part of the family. It was pretty…but different. Very different.

Standing face to face with her, he could smell her perfume. That hadn't changed, and he remembered smelling it every time she'd hugged him, and he remembered, too, how he'd always brushed her off with a roll of his eyes. He'd been such an idiot. With his brain overtasked, churning through his memories, he said nothing. He just stood there blinking up at her.

After a few strained seconds, she arched one of her beautiful eyebrows at him, smiling playfully. "Can I help you, sweetie?"

Dean swallowed, unable to find his voice. He stared dumbly until Macy poked her head out from behind her mother.

"Mace…" the word slipped from his mouth before he could stop it.

Macy turned toward her mom for protection, revealing a fresh, disfiguring scar running from her mouth to her ear.

"What happened?" Dean's protective instincts took over, and he forced his way past Cheryl, trying to get to Macy. "What happened to her?"

"Uh, whoa, son. What's going on, here?" Cheryl stepped between Dean and Macy, pushing against his chest, keeping him from approaching the frightened girl.

Dean staggered, stuttered, "I—uh, I just—" He stepped away, shoulders slumped. "What happened to Macy?"

Cheryl gave him a cockeyed, confused look. "You two know each other?"

Dean thought fast. "I, uh…I know Nicole Hamilton. Her little sister plays with Macy a lot. I've seen her at Nicole's house. I didn't…I didn't know Macy'd gotten hurt."

"Ah, I see," Cheryl said. "Well, Macy had an accident while visiting her grandma a few months ago. She ran through a window."

Oh, God. Dean remembered that day. Macy'd been sitting by the pool playing with her Barbie dolls and had run to get a popsicle. She hadn't noticed Granny had closed the door. Dean'd seen it coming…saw she wasn't stopping and he'd run to her, caught her right before she hit the glass. He'd even sprained a finger grabbing her and had pitched her crap about it afterwards, too.

Stroking the girl's pigtails, Cheryl smiled at her daughter. "She's got a long journey ahead of her. She'll have to go through a few surgeries once she's fully healed, but she's a brave girl, aren't you, honey?"

Macy gave her mom half a smile—the other half deadened by obvious nerve damage.

Dean bent down to Macy. "I'm sorry, munchkin. I'm so sorry." The little girl hid her face from him.

"You'll have to excuse her," Cheryl patted her daughter's head, "she's shy around strangers. Hasn't grown out of that phase yet."

Dean's throat constricted. Of course. He was a stranger to her. Tears prickled behind his eyes, and he pursed his lips, fighting them back. "That's all right," he said at last. He held out his hands to the little girl, skin still raw and red from having his stitches removed less than a week ago. "See? I went through a window this summer, too. We're, like, brother and sister."

Macy's curiosity overcame her shyness and she looked at Dean's hands, eyes wide as she looked at the patchwork of scars.

"I got one here, too." She showed him another long scar on her upper arm. "Mommy says I'm still beautiful, though."

"You are," the words burst from him. "You're more beautiful than Miss America. And you're smart and funny, too, and…" he swallowed, "…and you're a good kid. I should'a told you more often."

Cheryl's brows pinched. "So, um, did you come to see Macy?"

Dean rose to his feet. "Uh, no. I came because of the ad in the paper." He waved the scrunched newspaper. "You found a bike. I think—I think it's mine."

That one eyebrow of hers shot up again. "Oh! I see. Yes, we found it in our carport. I don't know how it got there. Can you describe it?"

Dean's lip wobbled. "Yeah, it's a 1993 GT Pro Elite. It's got AME Pro Tri grips, Rhyno Lite rims, and Odyssey Pitbull brakes."

Cheryl laughed. "Well, I'm not sure about half the things you said, but it is a GT Pro Elite. Any other special marks on it?"

The boy thought a moment and remembered. "Yeah," he said. "I etched my initials into the paint right below the logo—_WD._ My name's Dean Winchester."

The woman's smile lit her face sunshine bright. "Yep, sounds like your bike, all right."

As she spoke, a newer, black Nissan Dean didn't recognize drove up, slowed as it passed the Impala and turned into the driveway.

"Oh, there's my husband now. Hang on, he'll show you where the bike is." She waved at her husband who stopped in front of the gate spanning the driveway. When the man got out, Dean stifled a gasp of shock.

He'd put on over twenty-five pounds since Dean had last seen him. He wore dress pants, a dark blazer and a tie, hair slicked back, nearly gray. He'd only had a smidge of salt-and-pepper around his temples last time Dean had seen him. Beyond the gray, though, his whole posture was off, worn and tired, shoulders hunched from a long day at work. Judging from that, Dean didn't suppose he enjoyed it much.

As he opened the gate, Cheryl called to him. "Joe, this is the owner of the bicycle." She walked down the steps, beckoning Dean to follow her. Macy clutched her mother's shirt and came, too.

Following, Dean saw his dad in the Impala motioning for him to hurry it up. Dean made eye contact, gave his dad the smallest of nods and walked with Cheryl to where Joe stood, opening the gate.

"This is Dean Winchester, honey. He's the kid who owns the bike."

Joe smiled. "Oh, so this is quite the reunion, huh?"

Dean paused. "Yeah. I—I missed it."

"Okay then, well let's get you two back together."

"I'm taking Macy inside. Dinner will be ready in five." Cheryl took her daughter's hand. "Come on, let's go, Monkey."

Both Dean and Macy glanced up at that. Dean cleared his throat and massaged the newspaper in his hands, twisting it tight before stuffing it into his back pocket.

Dean bent down to Macy. "You take care, munchkin."

Macy smiled shyly and waved a pinky at him before taking her mother's hand and walking way. Dean watched them until they disappeared into the house.

"All right, young man, let's go get that bike of yours." Joe held the gate open, motioning for him to enter.

"Thanks." Dean followed him, too numb to say more. Joe made small talk with him as they walked toward the carport.

"Is that your dad in the Impala?"

Dean peered over his shoulder. "Yeah, my dad and my brother."

"She's a beaut. '67, right?" Dean nodded. Joe whistled his longing. "I used to own a small garage. Gave it up about ten years ago, though. Always wanted to focus on restoration. Never got the chance." The man swept a hand through his gray hair.

Dean stopped, his heart breaking. "Why? Why would you do that? You were good at it."

The man chuckled. "How would you know? Maybe I was a crap mechanic."

"I just know. I can tell."

A wistful smile broke over Joe's face. "Aw, I dunno. Working for a steady paycheck seemed like a good idea at the time."

"You should quit your job and open a shop. You'd like it. You'd be great at it. I know you would."

"Oh, you think so, do ya?"

Dean remembered all the nights spent bent over an open hood, passing tools back and forth, Joe teaching him everything he knew…taking simple joy in sharing his passion with his son. "Sure as heck beats working for the _man_."

Joe laughed, "Well, I think my girls would have something to say about that. They're not into cars, much. I think I'd better stay where I am." He pointed to the bike leaning against the carport. "Here we go—your chariot young sir…"

The lump in Dean's throat made it impossible to utter a word. The bicycle looked the same as it had that day he'd ridden it to his dad's—to Joe's—shop. He touched the black paint, ran his fingers over his initials haphazardly carved into the frame.

"So what's _WD_ stand for? Your initials?"

Dean nodded. "M'name is Dean Winchester."

"Ahhh, well, you mixed them up, there." Joe grinned, gave him a lighthearted poke.

"I know. I was just—confused that day."

"Well, as long as you found each other again…I guess that's all that counts." Joe winked at him, the crinkles in his eyes more pronounced than they had been—as if he'd aged an extra five years in the past month. "I can tell you missed her."

Dean squinted at the man. "I d—do. I did. I mean—" The words come out reedy, brittle.

"You okay, Dean?" Joe placed a concerned hand on his shoulder.

Dean drew his hand across his nose. "Yeah." He smiled shakily. "Yeah, sure. I just—I wanted to…" He offered the man his hand. "I wanted to thank you—for the bike—and…for everything."

Joe took his hand. "Uh, that's all right, kiddo. We didn't really do much. We woke up one morning and it found it in the carport. I guess whoever stole it dumped it here."

"Well, it means everything to me. You're an amazing guy, and—and you have a great family."

Joe chuckled, thinking Dean was nuts, no doubt, but he gave him a pat on the back. "Well, thanks, son."

Dean said nothing. He rolled the bike out from underneath the carport, mounted it at a hop, balancing with little effort, muscle memory taking over as he pivoted this way and that. He looked at Joe. "I'll never forget you."

Joe smiled, both amused and confused. He went to say something, but Dean stopped him.

"Tell my dad I'll be back later."

With that, Dean spun the bike around, and instead of taking the driveway, he cut into the alley behind the house. Standing on the pedals, he pumped furiously down the gravel road, hopped the curb, tore through the Baxter's driveway and sped along Bluewater Road. Hanging a right like he'd done a hundred times that summer, he stormed across Mrs. Minyard's lawn and pounded through the trail behind her house, connecting to the service road that led to the river.

At the riverbank, he let the bike fall with a clatter onto the pavement. He walked a few paces away towards the river and then back to the bike, his chest working in hectic bursts, adrenaline flowing, a million emotions storming through him until they boiled over, flying out of him in a blind rage.

He stampeded around the bike, blood burning his cheeks. "You're a dumb, ugly…useless, piece of crap bike." He kicked the front tire, stepped away then came back and kicked it again, harder. "You're stupid, you hear me? Stupid! I only wanted you because I was under a spell. I only wanted _them_ because someone made me! You get me? You hear me, you idiotic hunk of junk?" His voice cracked and broke around the words, his throat desert-dry.

Heaving the bike up, he slammed it onto the pavement with a crash. "I don't want you. I don't need you! I should'a been watching over Sammy instead of wasting my time with you—with them. My brother needed me and I was off playing dumb kid-games. I wasn't there for him! I dropped the ball, just like Dad said! I fucked up. And I hate you for it—I fucking hate you! I hate the day I ever got you! That dumb day…" He snarled, grabbed the handlebars and dragged the crippled bike, its frame bent all to hell, as he loped toward the river.

"You're not special, you know that? You think I care? I don't! See?" He slammed the bike down again, fury coursing through his body, making him dizzy. He picked the bike up for a last time, swung it by its handlebars, supercharged by self-loathing, and he let it go with a primal grunt. The Rio Grande heartlessly swallowed it with a splash, and the sound echoed and echoed in his ringing ears as baby whirlpools gulped and slurped over its settling spot.

It took a full minute for it to register—for him to come down from his high. Standing there blinking, throat constricted tight, he released a high-pitched wail of devastated shock. Dean's shoulders knotted with defeat and regret, and he collapsed, drawing his knees to his chest. Clasping them with his raw, aching hands, he laid his head down, and cried—cried for what he'd done and for what he hadn't, mourned for his losses and for what he'd failed to preserve.

He'd screwed up. He should have been there for Sam. He'd fucked everything up, let himself get taken—let himself be happy. All his fault. He hadn't laid a salt-line when he should have—hadn't done his job. And there'd been his atrocious behavior after Sam and his dad had gotten him back. Sam nearly died and he'd done nothing to help. He had a vivid memory of Sam passing out and falling down the rocky hillside, but he had no recollection of anything after that. He must have keeled over, too, instead of holding his shit together. It was a miracle his brother had survived. He'd failed. His father had been right to ream him for it.

He looked at the dark, murky waters. Though buried too deep to see it, the water still eddied above the bike, the currents below having to find new pathways around the obstruction.

Dean took a deep breath, and another one. He'd make it up to Dad and to Sammy. "I'll do it right next time," he said aloud. "I won't drop the ball. I don't care what it takes or what I gotta do or what happens to me. I'm a Winchester. I'll never let you guys down again. I won't." He wiped tears away with the balls of his hands. "I won't. You'll see. I swear to God, you'll see."

He sat for some time, head in his hands, rocking on his heels and haunches. Deep in thought he didn't hear the Impala until it drew close. Recognizing the sound, he lifted his head and wiped his nose. Somehow they'd found him, just like they always would. Lumbering to his feet as if the weight of the world rested upon his shoulders, he hailed his dad.

Rolling down the window, the man barked at him, "What the hell's gotten into you, Dean? I told you I was on a schedule."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir, it won't happen again."

"Get in. We got work to do."

Dean crossed in front of the car, opened the door and swung into the passenger seat. "Okay."

His dad gave him a penetrating glance. "Got your head in the game now, Dean?"

Dean turned his back on the river, stowing his shit two fathoms deep, his face set. "Hell, yeah. I'm good to go. I'm on the job. I won't screw it up, you have my word."

_**The End**_

**Assorted Pai Vocabulary:**

_Dála_ ("Father")

_Humé_ ("Son")

_Hawa_ ("House")

_Nya nuwa_ ("My friend")

_Nya misi:'ye_ ("My daughter")


End file.
